Quince Street
Lily Ladewig

All weekend I have been eating my fill of beets. The yellow stained pink, tissue paper stained pinkish-brown. How sad, the trees are confused. Drop your leaves like top hats. Zip it up. How sad, baseball teams. Zip it down. Break apart and fall with the thump of crab apples. I will never grow tired of poems about yellow. My skin sticking to your skin. The strong scent of butter. On the eve of leaving a pinching pain is a return is a reminder is now piercing. Cups of water will not make me better.