Through my window, the striated gray sky has set the climate.  The street is empty, save the lazy leaves strewn around.  I wish the trees would pick up for themselves – dressing right there in the open.  Twigs and wilted men, bent over into the wind, climbing into mediocre.  Not even a note is noticeable, I wonder, think and consider where we are. 

In cold homes

the blocks are there,

Autumn’s light has shone

for now,

Chalk skies are hard to view.

in view of winter.

12 Oct 08

 

dlb

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