Dampness forewarns, and gusts of
Warmth of November’s ambivalence.
Flocked leaves gossip of their frills.
Just a night. Just a forward movement
through the year. No storm unburied secrets
appear to inform morbid musing.
Lost in music, mews of distraction.
Surely long simmered treasure trove, untapped
incantations, emits smoky regret or revenge.
No more. These games pall.
I am weary of hate, that special hate called guilt,
that dark choking fire, berating, suffocating,
There is an alleyway, gothic iron gated,
back when the world was young and gay.
When I was freer than I understood.
There is a sudden meadow,
sedate evergreen statuesque tableaux.
There is a verdant sultry roadside,
Southern in ambiance. Sweat cling, dimming
A child who became me was there,
collected these cerebral photographs.
In quiet intervals, she has tried to structure
colorful montage from fractured pages
thumbed through, over viewed.
No neon You to co-author my plot or toss dialog.
Nothing meaningful comes easily.
First language must be grown from seeds
tumultuously accrued, deeply carried.