The intricate crumpled autumn leaf
I stopped to stare at was really a
tiny broken bird, dead as winter.
The warbling of another winged
One was really the hollow interior of a
weakly crushed slim can rolling down
the slightest incline of
Birch or
Cottonwood or
some other suburban
street named after a tree.
Your hand I held was really nothing
and this is what I call a
Love song.
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