The Third Fall of His Incarceration

I am on my way to visit my little brother

at the maximum security correctional facility

that he calls home. The wind steals dying leaves

from trees; brass, copper, saffron, maize, goldenrod

burgundy, the color of the sweats he wears when

he sits across from me in the visiting area.

It’s raining; it’s always raining when I go to see him,

but the foliage is near peak and sometimes when

I look into his eyes I can see the person I thought he was.

When the guard tells me to open my mouth and lift

my tongue, I spit out a pile of leaves. Don’t jump

into that, our father would yell at us, unless

you’re going to rake it all back up. We waited

for our father to go, so we could run and jump in

over and over again. The rustling of leaves

sounds like someone trying to warn sch sch sch

schiz zo schiz zo phren schiz zo schiz zo phren nia.

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