Saturdays like the last of them
celebrating collections in our heart pieces
of what we value in the trees around us:
the leaves we can't get to.

Scrolling down of the truck's window
as a reset button to freest freedom:
the man carrying home the pieces to make breakfast,
right turns without looking

Five minutes to the store,
sins upon him, sins unto her like
-a year sloughing about outside of Mexico City-
fluency as heroism, as peace.

As twangy as lighting one cigarette
with the prior one, pine,
and then rocking back,
what is it, tucked away.

Forgive me mother, I have confessions
that I dissolve with the sun out here.