Has the breeze blown my leaves
dancing past your windows again,
messing with your preferred
view of the world?
With the whirl of wind
in the corner of your entryway,
did some of my dry pages collect,
lying one upon the other and
your eyes resting upon them?
That’s me, persistently obnoxious,
dry, musty, combustible,
here and there a bloody vermillion,
verging on decay and perhaps
worth the pressing between your pages.
Go ahead, you can sweep me away again.
But as long as these winds sing and I stand,
these paper-thin thoughts will rap
and rattle your locked doors.