Becca Wild
the brick ashes itself against its hard-earned face
with open nostrils against autumn

who lets out his long H-sound
at flurries guessing

and fricative leaves dervishing their sadnesses
in exchange for having just died.

the clouds know that they are grey,
large palms facing down.

the great metaphor of the sun is gone, 
stooping behind its slate of sky.

windows peek in response.
streetlamps listen, then rhyme.