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?




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