"IN THE AUTUMN"

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/ poem

Written last century, lyrical and unrhymed, a friend of pessimism and aversion

Autumn drops from the spit of summer.

 

It is brown, well-mealed, perhaps a little burnt;

Its plush resplendencies are gone; its fruits are split.

 

That spring, that summer,

Grimace in a scattering of husks, a wizened apple,

Is unbearable.

 

And at the core:

Pipped deaths, abbreviations, futures going hard.

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