sKINK*

The leaves have left, scooted off, decamped, fallen willy-nilly from the sky. A thighbone denude of skin, a breastplate skink to concavity, a lacking, an absence, a mortuary spade at the ready: the brothel that is fall, an autumnal scullery, this brittle evocation of death and rebirth, the mythology of creation, at least as it appears from the gander of my bedroom window, at this moment, in this moment in time, denuded and fallen, scooted off, skink.