would that i were
some brocade pattern sea of leaves
to be swept in a line from
orange to dead brown
for though the dark and mottled
would spin in great number
and blot the screaming lines of sun
i would see once and for all
what mass of me
could catch fire
and come winter
myself would spiral
on the swaths of white
and looking black against it
be nice to see
but for my part
i will try my spark
on my death hoping
God is there
to keep me from orange
Shanty Town 