Tuesday, November 17, 2020


That wanton abundance 
of the previous season,
having given way 

only recently 
to a veteran autumn's
spare skinny elegance, 

all of us 
who feel unloved, 
unknown, unsure, 

and unconsidered
can relax
in a palace of pallid splendor 

made of of colorless leaves
and chimneys' smolders.
As if finally, lost 

on the great lawn of decay—
its withering gardens 
and overripe apples—

we are protected,
flanked by bare bulbous limbs 
on a carpet made of cinders, 

well represented
by nature's squalor—instead
of neglected.