running around the graveyard

fall, leaves. rip down
your wrinkled remains. the sun's high
in the autumn sky, but everyone's
on to winter.

listen--city buses, church pews
barber chairs--the incessant chatter
of the unrelenting chill.
this isn't small talk.

no one consults the calendar,
the thermometer--the vital signs
of your future that reason weeks
more orange & yellow.

people hear your crunch as they walk
like a death rattle. an echo
of their fear, of the looming
dark days and icy streets.

they know better

but willingly excuse themselves
with complaints that "it just goes so fast."

fall, leaves. stop clinging
to temperate times. cut loose
your full veins, cover these cracked stones
like a life less decoration.

it's the same circle every year.