in th city of dead leaves,

we collect baskets of cigarette butts.
they are the closest thing to flowers
we can find. we hold each in between 
finger & thumb, imagining a willow tree growing 
from such a seed. each smoldered cigarette
is unique. a pair of lips lingered there
drinking in the smoke. at night
everyone hides under leaves. everyone scurries 
on the feet of mice. there is garbage 
to make love in: a chip bag, a tasty-cake wrapper,
the skirts of reeses cups. we are young
though our age is flickering. time is 
an ice skater here. she wears her hair in a bun.
there is no ice so she makes due
with a tiny moto bike. on a good day
the smog tastes like burnt sugar.
on a bad day it tastes like sad memories:
dying oaks & wilting daisies. 
we don't remember much about 
the color green. we make up stories
of a green god who sleeps
on the other side of the sun. 
he comes down to feed us edamame beans
only when we sleep. the city isn't a city at all.
we call it a city so that it sounds 
alive. a large flat of asphalt, really.
it is hard to be the older brother here.
my parents sleep all day & wake up only 
to change positions & glance 
at the flickering strett lights. 
their eyes are made of plastic & their teeth
turned into helicopters years ago. 
we collect tattered postcards 
of erased locations like
oklahoma & wildwood & maine. 
i gather the other children 
& we take turns conjuring these locations 
from their images. we close our eyes 
& walk out to the ocean. we close our eyes
& step foot in a bustling street 
with wide-eyes vehicles & street vendors.
we close our eyes again, blinking so fast
it's like we're taking photographs
with our eyes. the children of the city of leaves
are sometimes full of joy.
sometimes we hold hands in a circle.
we are not children of course,
we are maybe eighteen maybe twenty.
the children are still living 
as mice. we feed them what we can.
as for us, all we have is bodies 
in piles of leaves. a soft humming 
trills through the air & gives us goosebumps.
as for me, i actually do plant 
the cigarette butts. i burry them deep
under leaves so dead they're stuck together.
i don't check on what i plant.
i am not that hopeful. what i really want
is an apple tree. i saw one on a stamp once.
i have never seen something alive
so red. hope is something that needs
measurent. allow yourself only enough 
to stay alive, is what i say. 
there is still a part of me that believes
i will wake up once 
under an apple tree & the city of dead leaves 
will come around me with all their joy.
the god behind the sun will feed us
ripe red fruit & we will 
breathe easier 
through the smoke.