[Nature’s] light flows into the mind evermore
— Emerson

Leave this body out all night
in frost in the leaves.

Let it rest under the revivified stars
in the park, a citizen of autumn and this city,
hidden here on a path as old as the venerable
Quinnipiacs.

Leave it
for the morning jogger to discover,
or kids skipping school.

They will illuminate their cell phones,
a mixture of wonder and panic
as they call their incredulous friends.

What does it matter now,
suicide or murder?

The story
will reveal itself in all of its particulars
of vengeance or sorrow.

For now, let the body be one of us,
a transcendentalist,
or a child curled with a head full of death
defying dreams,

while the glimmer
is the edge of our harbor, our bridges,
and churches.

The field below
is made of autumn odors
and low breezes —

goal posts, dug outs, and bleachers,
the etched directory
of seraphim.