Though I saw it all around
Never thought I could be affected
Thought that we'd be the last to go
It is so strange the way things turn

Monday, October 11, 2010

Slow Burn

It took all summer,
but the trees are showing their tans
A slow burn of rust
consums the branches.
Flakes pile on the floor below
and clog streams.
The scent of pencil shavings
stirs erasure dust memories
of brown corduroy pants
and pink cashmere sweaters.
Heartened pumping of blood
pounds the heartache from my eyes.
Ghost wisps of fog wrap the past
and harden my nights.
Youth calls like
candy apple cravings
and bat winged remembrances
flit in allergic waves
in wood smoke eyes.

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