by Peter Chiu

Trace the path of a floating ginkgo leaf
        as it falls from a wet branch,
down to where a coyote still wanders around

        in the trapped heat of its skin.
The quiet sheen of morning rain here,
        autumnal ghosts still retreating.

Just as well, I’m wondering where you might be
        this hour, somewhere still forming,
like how the lines on our palms

        become maps with time.
Maybe you’re the clean smell
        of this forest slick with rain.

I’d stay here with you and
        float back to a southern moon,
back to where I last saw you sleeping.

Peter Chiu’s recent work has appeared in Crab Creek Review, the Indianapolis Review, wildscape literary journal, and elsewhere. He lives in Los Angeles with his family.