Curled brown leaves  
litter the sloped hill.  

They skitter in the wind 
before we remove the land.   

Now take away the need 
for moisture and the deteriorating  
qualities of autumn. The veins   

and stems will release as well.  
Take away the release. Take  
away the seasons. Take away   

fuzzy green-orange filters, stains  
of breaking mornings, early hints  
at night. There is no dew.  
No canvas. Take that, too.  

There is no ground. No horizon. Take.  
When you finish all your taking (take) 
all that's left are windy underpinnings (take)  
that undulate and gasp.   

If God's sighs for us can be either hard  
disgust or complete relief, which way would  
green-orange turn until the color brown believes?    

Kurt Cole Eidsvig is the author of the books The Simple Art of Murder, OxyContin for Breakfast, Art Official, and Drowning Girl. He lives and works in Key West.