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.
