Moments

Moments, like images of autumn
appear in my mind and float away as easily
as the leaves the cross my path from trees
who choose to undress together.
None of them get to live.
I crush them all, purposefully grind them
into indistinguishable mush,
not even the brilliant ones, beautiful small
explosions of toxic colors and summer sunsets
are salvaged from my wrath,
and I do it singly to hear their spines crack.

And they never saw me coming,
did not have time to tell the next one to vanish--
could not tuck their children in to cupboards,
could not button their pants,
it was like a bandit kicking in the door,
the silhouette of someone in a long coat
with a rifle.

These moments, I destroy them all
cohesive ideas that string together a life
cause disheartening head holding,
eye closing, sighs--
A sigh that stops my day,
consciously forcing back tears,
building walls, not talking to friends,
wanting my loneliness so that I could be unaware,
of my events.

So I kill them,
wait for it to pass like autumn into winter,
and look woefully and proudly at the carnage.
Who is safe? The newspapers would scream,
Not one of you with your memories.