our summer
was brilliant

and brief
we rejoiced

and shoveled
cheap gold

and trinkets
into our pockets

and millions
of landfills

grew like boils
now God

is singing
his favorite song

which is Turmoil
and throngs

are sleeping
in the frost

and dust
is falling in

the empty homes
of the homeless

who will curl
in the cold

with their children
and the breeze

all night long
will cover them

with fallen leaves
like hands