Even in an explosion
if you have the right shutter-speed: the shards of rock

– projectiles – will become fluttering leaves decorating an icy wind.
Autumn is everywhere. Autumn is your skin flaking,

those shards becoming boulders offered to the eye
of an electron microscope, becoming food for dust-mites,

becoming the conundrum of The Instant:
How can moments, things, have an independent existence?

Yet, if found among the scattered remains of an explosion,
the shards of my canines and molars will prove my existence.

Everywhere I look the avenues of trees are exploding in slow-motion.