Dark Highway
Seattle summertime is all
Forgotten, in an ugly fall
Of fog, and ever-soaking rain
That hammers heavy down
Upon a woman’s window-pane,
As I am leaving town.
Her only souvenirs are some
Of my romantic poems from
Illusions of an August love,
That left her out of breath—
Before her artist-image of
Me died an autumn death.
October teaches her that I
Had my ambitions up too high,
Imagining I’d ever be
Remembered by a book.
But all of her was offered free
For taking, so I took.
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