I surrender them, loose in
grocery sacks. When they
shift it sounds like whispering.
I cannot seem to leave.
I stand where tree after tree
fell to the valley floor. A
few miles from here, the paper
factory pumps sulfur into
morning dew. Rain has almost
washed this parking lot away.
A din of little drops dots
my blue flannel shirt. Mouth tastes
of cardamom. A raindrop hits
me near the eye but the sky
stays neutral. When I start the car
to leave, it sounds like a wad
of paper bursting into flame.