you never allow me to roll up. to fly away

I'm watching the leaves fly madly from the trees. The result of strong wind like an intrusion. It's a weird dance of percussion matched by swift resonant silence. The low hum of construction machinery. My disc man, still playing itself out through headphones lying on the desk. Like a conversation I want to listen to, but can't quite bring into relevant focus. I keep thinking about the word kitsch. And the phrase: my desire as my distress. Spreads. Slowly. Outward. But I can't place the source. These poems in my head like ants on a dirty sidewalk. Messy malleable shapes -- constantly in the way. There's something sacred about nakedness -- the moon. I can hear her singing: it's a long way down a dusty road to safety. Close my eyes and rock against the sounds the words make inside my head. Close the blinds. Close my mind around the way it might feel to walk barefoot across those piles of broken fallen leaves.