I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark
morning streets, I point and name.
Look, the sycamores, their mottled,
paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves
rusting and crisping at the edges.
I walk through Schiller Park with you. on my chest. Stars smolder well. into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,
the dogs paddling after their prized sticks.
Fall is when the only things you know. because I’ve named them. begin to end. Soon I’ll have another. season to offer you: frost soft. on the window and a porthole
sighed there, ice sleeving the bare
gray branches. The first time you see. something die, you won’t know it might. come back. I’m desperate for you. to love the world because I brought you here.