TrilogyWarm SeptembersLast a little while but not for real for so long,sooner or later the windows and doors closeand the pavement aches with forgotten wordsjust as everyone eagerly waits for that one song,September 21, out from which jumpsthe dance accompanied to a final dreamthrough a neighborhood grown like a slow friend,all the while street traffic slipping on by smootherand an ever greater danger than the day itself.Brief OctobersA foot resting on the rung of a fold up chairwhile afternoon sets the draping hickorybeneath a sky dabbed with random clouds,a perfect thing to do once you've learnedthat you no longer know how to walk towardthe address of someone no longer known,numbers gone, collapsed while living shadowsmake all the additions and subtractions fluidenough with years to rely upon an existent sun.NovemberEmpty chairs surround a silent table,broad weathered trunks clothe the horizon,grey being adrift while the last flame diesand I'm gaining something always so largewhile losing what's known is only oh so small,west wind rung downward deep to the bone--first a whistle, then nothing left but a humover the ground where the weight of ashis a place lain and to remain closely beside.
2022-11-28
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