The illness

Today the boughs of naked trees
image a brain,
neurons splintering sky.
Here is a secret.
And you who never so much
as broke a bone before.

The evening finds you walking home.
Used thoughts crackle like leaves underfoot.
Who will put these thin jigsaws together?
Who can find the time? Who cares?

Have we finally asked too much of you?
Now that your own hands are liars,
now that your body
has an agenda it won’t share.
It is autumn everywhere.
Bereft of words for this,
you stop for a moment
at the side of the road.
In a bald field, a scarecrow
frightens no one.

You are a timecapsule,
and the secrets you bury
will take you with them.