Two Leaves

— Marco Yan

One abrades another, in awe, on the surface,
grapples, losing some green, some soft yellow.

Good leaves don’t fall easy on foreign water
or sink into the gurgling mouths of koi—

so I believed—the night I ran to where you were,
leaping over a pothole scratched open by ice.

Have you ever stooped to study a leaf,
its venation bleached like bones in a bird’s foot?

I still don’t know if I’m made for water,
made of thoughts, or thoughtlessness, to drift—where?

You’re no longer a leaf, more like a fish skipping,
now legs walking away. Nature loves reversals.

I’m held in this blue circumference, stagnant, drying,
wanting to freeze a light.


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