Calling to you
holding half a lung back from screaming your name
or yelling through the ambiguous silence of a thousand leaves
falling at once on this November day
almost as if I could whisper and the stems of red oaks would
convey that trickled sound from my lips to the corner of your ear.
The white of your eyes no different than autumn’s grey dome
in lieu of rain and still brighter than its ashen cascade.
I am without jacket and have been since April.
The God that lives outside of my head hunkered over
and listening to all the nothing in there
like there’s only a fan blowing
and silence catches drift.
I’ve never seen the northern lights
or the blood moon
but I have seen you turning to your name
under the purging of every tree on campus
and walking to me
and I wished you could be the first to hear these thoughts
churning like a spark of heaven
in a hellish mind.