Monologues for the short of breath

Monologues for the short of breath,
comic mumblings to welcome death

This autumn’s panorama
gold and ochre in the gutter.
Tumbling. Wanton.

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?

.

.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s