Tonight

Tonight, I find leaves
under everything I lift.
The trash can, the water glass,
the pile of clothes.
There are
apple seeds inside of you
when I
cut
you open, all in a row,
huddled, like a circle of children.
It’s amazing: a tattoo
of the alphabet
inside of your mouth, a mirror
of
my mouth
in your eyes.
The Sox won the series tonight
and still,
the small green light of the smoke alarm
flashes in the paradox of darkness, the
voice
of a paralyzed man screeching
inside his cage of arms,
the web of trees
pixilates in shadow somehow
upon the dank ceiling.
Walking in the
cold night
with only a shirt,
the stone lion smiles at me from down at the end
next to the chair, next to the yellow flowers.