Lake Leaves

I hear the sea
in rustling leaves,
waves just barely

trip thinking lake into
sea.
Slowly green

browns before me,
dyed in leaf shade.
I attempt over

and over to attribute
meaning to it, the lake.
A song instead

gets hold, grips
the gut back, the shimmer
and stink beneath releases.

Spilt seeds once
plucked now fall, sag
and bragging

of the suburbs, the leaves.
Going nowhere, the only
open places play bad

music and the food is fried,
crackling like paper to get
at some present. I tuck

my night owl down,
sheets clipping its beak.
Elsewhere, the warmth

the night flower blooms,
the black
not quite folding back

as it should once in
the air, splits
like shoal under net

with those waves
scraping the chintz
off their fingernails.

Patrick Paridee Samuel received an MFA from Columbia College Chicago. His debut collection, And Another Thing, is forthcoming from Broken Sleep Books in 2025. He lives in Nashville where he works in university press publishing.