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.