morning
star
damp
Autumn is
a
hung rug outside
a
clear eaten orange
to
blue slide pink tongue
over
the hush whisper
stillness
of everything
except
the occasional
pierce
black caw
of
the crows and
the
mockingbirds
rolodexing
its
calls
the
seed gatherers scurry
to
hurry to soon
fly
south again
I
left the window open so
that
the cool air
could
eat away
at
my dreams
so
that I could awake
swimming
in them
with
little shivers
little
arrows that found
each
target of my flesh and
bones
and the hone
of
a soul yearning
to
be on slow fire
like
the day is
at
the mark of Dawn
to
the East
as
if an apple
were
already
spilt
in two
upon
her head
EJR
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