Untitled 11/18/18

Words

Friday 4 p.m.
All I want
is a beer, and
minutes
to find glory
words.
I’ll dig
words
out from
autumn’s
pretty crud
and the early snow
I’ll wave my
work-week tired arms
to claw a few
syllables from
the stratus.
I’ll find words,
There or there,
Or in the cavernous
empty ale cans.

 

my autumn
death of a fallen leaf
poor thing
brown and drowned
new green
will replace it
until then
the trees
will rattle on
about its death

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