Of luck, say what we didn’t win.
We acknowledge our fixed
numbers and convoluted equations.

Say we accepted loss, our
lethal mutations, our pitiful
grins and ill-fitting wrinkles.

Say we kept at what kept us
here, bodies piling about
like a season’s famous

leaves—incalculable numbers
someone must know.Say
we found the one leaf we

never wanted—veins red, its
heaven streaked as the summer
it became.O holy day.

—Dwaine Rieves
When the Eye Forms