there is a violent wind pouring down / closing in from some distant hill & so / i find the garden at the edge of the block / run my fingers through its soil now / & whisper a song as apology & it is exhausting / how we all admire death in our own ways but i want the filter / that makes the reds seem green again / & until then i walk the streets with my eyes closed / i sleep during the drive through the troubled vineyard / i have been tricked before & this time / i want to leave no different than when i came in / the world is on fire & you are eager for the photo / but what of the trees & their labor? / how each leaf is draped in a new hue & its edges / curled toward itself as if retreating / from the widening mouth of a small flame / & listen, when i say i am not fond of autumn / i am thinking mostly of my homies & how it seems / we only have one good season where the gold falls / just right around our necks / where we can leak across the park with our music loud / the type of niggas basking in safety & admiring a good oak / peer outside your glass now & tell me / of how it looks like you are dreaming / tell me about the children laughing & drowning / in dead leaves / large golden dust falling from their hair / & falling from their arms / & i will tell you about the dream / where my homies line the street / only to dance & bend / their bodies & bend / their knees until they drop & every night / when i close my eyes / they slip through my fingers / before hitting the ground & i plead then / just as i plead to the leaves / come back come back /come back