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Autumn Mixup
…for a long time summer has been toying with me…
Summer is grinning
from her pierced skull
to glittery toesÂ
painted in Van Gogh’s
ungodly gold plucked light.
All yellow except for a line of violet hills.
I expect poets
will claim September
is the cruelest month,
yielding to the rats
in the alleys of Wasteland.
It is a brutal fate ahead for the reapers of wheat.
The worst part is being
in limbo and waiting.Â
The uncertainty
is unbearable, said autumn equinox to winter solstice.Â
Instead of finishing
summer with a great blast of force
I. inch. in. degrees.
Soon this third act will be edged out.
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