a deer clicks down our veined, cracked street—
an aged neighbor rakes his own skeletal leaves—
an aged neighbor rakes his own skeletal leaves—
my dog yanks his leash, pulls me
to a threadbare spot,
a spotted fawn lies, unmoving as a sloth
shielded by pampas grass.
Why does its mother leave it all alone?
It is so close to me I could kill it—
Although I never would—
told by the nuns: God punishes with fire.
Back home, my husband is using his orange leaf blower
to rid cracked acorns, mildewed leaves,
our first magnolia’s woeful blossoms.
I have hurt those who have not touched me.
Bare spots replace autumn’s inherent debris.
