I’d like less decay,
to fill my lungs with autumn, the only rot
the leaves that step their way down
to humus in the roots,
unaware of mushrooms’ frills and threads
making life there,
a nick of the last blackberry the only tear
of flesh worth speaking of,
an agile mind
caught up with news or history or merely
what played last on the screen.
I’d like a nap, warm in layers
of quilt and down and the choice
whether to turn the heater on
or wait a little closer to the solstice.
Rather that than this hill,
the twenty breaths above who wait
with bolt and blade to break
my brain onto the stone below.