Saturday, October 13, 2012

I Thought This Autumn Would Be Different

It gives heavy perfume
Dying leaves are
Necks on lips or
Midwest mouth on
Southern hips

Screen doors
We have to shut them soon
Prickly stars do
Same that Mars do 
Mange coyote 
Sniffs out moon

Sick Sycamore
Bends whispers low
Between thin slats
Nowhere to go
My wooden room
Set fire ablaze to

Fireplace too
Smoke billows in
In summery plumes
Runs away
Too soon