Autumn came in a whisper across a
different conclusion, Autumn came
as a bird through a windowpane.
Smaller words fled
whitespaces in a breath; below
her wing and too many syllables, often
I fear there was nothing.
into a lung I exhale
polygons and into her skin I
exhale lines of soaked
oil that are coloring books that
fill the air with a
poorly traced majesty.
Autumn makes herself
known through a trade of knowledge, a
stylus between my fingers carries
nothing. I held a parachute of
doves, painted red and gold
in the onset of fall, but they
dispersed into the trees and
painted Autumn in a false warmth. She
climbed over the fence and shouted at
me from the backyard while in leisure
my elbows rested on the windowsill.
The frost climbs up the pane and obscures
her behind a column, she comes
with a sharp breath and inhales the birds
who are the merchants of winter.
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