the leaves

chisaku can't get enough of them
whooshy fronds across le ciel
choirs of light and pause
occupation for the mind,

obscene canopies that in pixels
mirror the eye's own veiny universe.

it's proust much taken by play of light and optics
tricks of reality, fictions of presence
and danny's leaves (my mis take,
to take, leaves, how the world goes) and,

an old dream of mine,
a floor of torn leaves each an eye
and what the eye does (back to chisaku),
eat and hunger.

there's always more.