Russet

I want to drink
The day down.
Maybe next

The night—first,
We’ll find
our feet, our feet

the floor. The blue beyond
the window
returns like a mother

after work, collapsing into
the living room.
I’m home. I’m done being

in love with
what leaves—
autumn gathers

in the trees, russet,
then tries
not to fall asleep

on the cold ground,
God, it is
hard being happy

if you try—
instead, be like
this slow

yellow. Let go.