I do not mind sitting backward
sticks blur and pink blooms wisp
by in my single seat not by the others
I saw a subterranean march early spring -
little soldiers with lapel pins their weapons.
We hold the little secrets of ourselves
like treasured playing cards
And in the springtime they are so wet and full
in our quick hands dirt and creosote and birdsong -
But by crisp sudden autumn,
they blow away, the childhood leaves
turn vermillion and are gone
