What does god do with all the green 
in October? 

in his orange 
sweater 
& red canvas shoes
God walks down main street
-- the body of
a little
boy-- his skin
is cold--
it's october--
the kind of cold
that's lonely 
but still empty of
winter--
he fills his
jean pockets
with green--
tree by tree by
tree--
pulling the green
off the leaves 
by the handful--
he tells 
the oak 
to hush as she weeps
for virescence 
of her children-- 
she watches them rust--
bleed reds & 
drop  brown
on the sidewalk
he runs his hand over
her trunk
& 
tells her that all
our children
must someday
jump & fall on
the pavement--
the wind moans
& rips leaf
after leaf from
her hands--
he tells the earth to
be quiet-- to 
be still--
to listen to 
a night without emeralds 
he says there 
is a certain beauty  
to dying in so many
different colors
& she doesn't believe
him--
he keeps walks--
all full of green
& he walks past the 
shop fronts
where each building
has spent decades  
falling in love with
each  other--
only to speak to 
each other
in the murmur of
porch lights 
& in the shadows
of Gods who 
stroll this time
in october--
he's headed down 
to stream--
dark-- face covered
by the torsos of
the white ash
& red oaks--
their knees genuflecting 
in the shallow water--
there he empties 
himself of green--
green laughing &
crying
in the gossip of
the water--
green full of mouths
& kissing &
sweat on our bodies--
green that remembered us 
knew us--
believed in us--
oh green unclasping
hands--
green letting go--
floating
belly up 
to another year--
God lit a cigarette--
the spark of his 
lighter bright against
the black water--
he breathed a storm
cloud from his lips
& the store fronts
looked at each other
wide-eyed
& in love
it's october