Poem: "Paper trail"

Paper trail

More cuts on
my fingers than words
on my tongue. Look,
they line up, neat,
flapping like gills.
Press under
water to breathe.

A yellow leaf I found,
crisp, in the jungled basil
this evening. Crumpled
discard, paper
from a maple's summer
brainstorm. I brush
the leaf away, shuffle,
across the deck. That color
cannot be, not yet.

See the arrows,
the cut paper
signs my finger
prints pointing,
leave behind.

(Always, I am thinking
of ways to avoid detectives).



                    - JVH