Symphony #1: Oaktree
I. Allegretto in Yellow and White
Butter, in short sleeves and hems,
wakes me by melting the wedge of salt
that's jamming the crisper drawer.
Staying there would have wilted me
and kept my hands from turning themselves
inside out and growing over my arms,
paying rich bills while they unlock
upstairs windows from the inside,
stepping off baseball and Pop Warner,
changing oil, and mowing lawns.
II. Adagio in the Colors of Apples
November morning catches its teeth on me.
My breath burns it back,
redeeming paper dollars by silverplating some
and minting others into gold-guinea blood.
There are more pennies than eagles,
but some blaze up,
pretending to be their own children.
III. Funeroso in Brown
I smell
of tea, of cigars,
of the debt they've made of me.
It's this way every year,
but I’d never pawn
the key to a mint,
the crypt printed with my face.
I'm closing for winter, not bothered
that I can’t afford the vacation
for which I’ll pay you back when I get there.
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