Monologues for the short of breath,
comic mumblings to welcome death
This autumn’s panorama
gold and ochre in the gutter.
October beneath my buckskin booties
while in my gut a rumble
that foretells the horribles to come.
November trees pathetic
in their near nakedness –
just enough folliage to camouflage
black talons to scratch at the sky
December – will we even see
its icy moon glitter
in some never-ending night?