The trees are overwhelmed by night
behind the windowpane's reflection,
and their leaves are lost to the sewers,
gutters, to rot confined in polyethylene bags.
There is less of them each time and it's
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
through a raised hand against the sun
with fingers counterfeiting branches.
On a Sunday morning when some fold
their hands together, closed and still,
the elm become most naked, spreading,
flowering negative spaces between limbs.
The cold that makes us shiver has them toss
the leaves that fall in sheets against the grass green moss.