The old men rake the yards for
Burning the autumn-fallen leaves.
They have no lives, the one or the other.
The leaves are dead, the old men
Only a little, light as a leaf,
Left to themselves of all their loves:
Light in the head most often too.
Raking the leaves, raking the lives,
Raking life and leaf together,
The old men smell of burning
But which is which they wonder &mdash
Anyone tells the leaves and loves
Anyone left, that is, who lives.
