can you review/critique my poem?

It is supposed to be in modernist style

Gray leaf

Clinging to the edge of the branch of the trunk it holds
Watching its fallen brothers discolored in folds
Stem running cold, akin to the crunches below
Color running, bleeding, clinging

Wind falls rushing down to strain it off, off- off
Weak in its open surrounding, clinging so soft
Tucking in tight, preparing for it
Color running, bleeding, clinging

Where to but traveling time, down and around
Struck by the colorful grave, not yet bound
Branches swaying, trunk wrinkled old
Color running, bleeding, clinging

Fallen through, with an old doff to the tree
Seeing through its descent-

An elusive shadow that breaks real sticks
A transparent tree casting jagged shadows
A ghost man walking the concrete streets
A dead bird flying, falling with each beat

Seeing more as it’s gusted along
Not for fighting, nor flying, simply to prolong
No longer a real petal in an imaginary world
But a crumpled figment fallen in an spherical twirl

Passing through an unreal cloud
Pushed between surreal rooftops
Brushed by the fur of a lost dog
Simply now wanting to leave this fog

Suddenly awakening, leafing back
Passing up on a rushing track
Yet too late declares the wind
Suddenly too low, plummeting back

Passing emptiness yet again
Those illusory objects real but to stand
Not wanting to join them, nor the colored cemetery
Color running, bleeding clinging

And yet, gray leaf, gray, tree bark peeling
Gray leaf, gray, no longer fleeting