cutting great neck

i have collected
scraps of nothing,
the dead leaves
pouring from my
bedroom window
and into the world—
hundreds of them,
useless and tittering
across the parquet
with shallow faces
from yellowing plants.
the heat extracts
the strongest scents
from the greenest
trees: the evergreens,
the oaks, the sallow,
nocturnal willows
stand in rows, emit
a sacrosanct song
that trembles in the air
like empty voices,
unanswered gods.
“who do you think
you are?” the nothing
titters, and dust rises
from beneath bare feet.
maybe i’m nothing, too?



not posting too much; end-of-year tests, etc. sorry! will post more soon!