The end of autumnlowers its leavesin the wealthy residential neighborhoods.Paintings in galleries and private foundationshold some short-lived way of seeinginto misery or love.Those artists believed in power.I should, too.Strangers unman mein a rented studio. And each time, somethingempties out of me,disquieting, delicate. My heartis sulfur, my bodypasty in daylight, the dead my onlyreaders now.The bathroom: the tub, sink, and toilet are empty.We should lock ourselves in here for a whole weekendand not eat or drink.I’m not actually a trapped animal, I could leave,I don’t want to.Let’s play that game where I’m the dead bird from The Hours.A quail chick a hunter puts to sleepto train the dogs.The liver is the seat of lust.You should cut it out of me and eat it.I want poems to be memoriesof my ancestors, calling them back.The end of autumnunfolds in a series of textures and places:rough towels, the laundry,the green walls of a place I belonged to.Stars, slow traffic,the summer I wished you loved meenough to kill me,but not really.The airport outside Berlin,the arms of others.My childhood is over, I only sleep in this bed now.