maybe we were children
when the leaves stole our
imagination in autumn,
and the river turned into
a street corner full of
cities in its cracks, the
jazzman’s solemn trumpet
graces footsteps of
our past as we swam
into rising waters. someone
called out for us, we heard
them, but our ears never
picked up on their
voice. maybe we were
children, sitting in the
cool autumn river, our
past floating around
us. yet we are ghosts,
and ghosts never carry a past.
