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,
And at the core:
Pipped deaths, abbreviations, futures going hard.