Heat of the lit
leaves warms the wayward
side of my head. Light is
not a metaphor.
I am the seeing
eye only on a morning
in November
sun glistens like a tongue
licking the blacktop, slicking back
the cowlicks of leaves.
Mother Moisture, Father Heat,
who instilled a mind in me
to think these things?
Who is the wellspring
of my eyes
stretched open unto morning?
My mind, one step
at a time, word by word
unravels.