Russet

I want to drink

           The day down.

Maybe next

The night—first,

            We’ll find

our feet, our feet

the floor. The blue beyond

             the window

returns like a mother

after work, collapsing into

             the living room.

I’m home. I’m done being

in love with

            what leaves—

autumn gathers

in the trees, russet,

             then tries

not to fall asleep

on the cold ground,

            God, it is

hard being happy

if you try—

           instead, be like

this slow

yellow. Let go.