A.J. Urquidi



How it ends: in nocturnal earth
             pictures all houses
clump, amber leaves on Union
                          Square trees halfway
                                        through November. They fold
                          and disappear, but soon
                                        they will stalk
             their moment of return.


                          Fear’s fires—end’s coming,
though not for all creations.
                          When Jake and I restored
             his lost friend to the restaurant
she spittled words, a harpooned
             tuna. En route home, saw
a girl supine in the street, a leaf
                                        we decided not to rake.


For a week some bubbling
             red rat-bird rots
on the curb while upstate
                          a flock does the same.
                                       I came here to help
                          but my stay will be short.
                                       An end is coming—
             I despise surprises.