The Third Fall of His Incarceration
I am on my way to visit my little brother
at the maximum security correctional facility
that he calls home. The wind steals dying leaves
from trees; brass, copper, saffron, maize, goldenrod
burgundy, the color of the sweats he wears when
he sits across from me in the visiting area.
It’s raining; it’s always raining when I go to see him,
but the foliage is near peak and sometimes when
I look into his eyes I can see the person I thought he was.
When the guard tells me to open my mouth and lift
my tongue, I spit out a pile of leaves. Don’t jump
into that, our father would yell at us, unless
you’re going to rake it all back up. We waited
for our father to go, so we could run and jump in
over and over again. The rustling of leaves
sounds like someone trying to warn sch sch sch
schiz zo schiz zo phren schiz zo schiz zo phren nia.
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