September, Reno, Nevada, 6:16pm

In the early evening
when the wind has come up
and blown out the late afternoon,

these trembling leaves
cannot resemble
a local cliche.

At no point 
can a tree and its yellowing greens
give way to geometry 
or any other typecast. 

That is what I like
about poems.
The mind eats 
the irreplicable 

and provides an impression
of how the bacteria wriggle
as they help break down
whatever you saw.

Further down in the process;
look there, 
deeper,

when any object tempts you
with the sense that you both
have been here before.