The Last Autumn Poem
Again,
apple cider season,
cool autumn whiskey,
burning leaves.
No one needs another autumn poem.
We grow gaudy phrases
like pumpkins,
hollow out foreheads,
throw away seeds.
Always paring, cutting
eyes
with awkward thumbs,
seeing autumn
as a pewter stallion
and winter
wildly undone.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005
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