It seems—by this
wornout green-
by-burnt-
umber fringe of
late September—that everything
must be more
than a little
bit tired—or
else, such slack
agglomerations as these—
mums and petunias; that brazen
short skirt
and long oatmeal sweater;
or even—the whole hazy
conceit of those
two separate
seasons altogether—simply
wouldn't be able
to keep themselves
propped-
up so flimsily—simply by
leaning dispassionately
back on each other.
