Friday, September 28, 2012

Autumn Chronograph: 21



Autumn Chronograph: 21

Dry-green timber flames-up to sparse clouds not fifty
miles otherward from your tilt.  You find your bottle-
thirsty self in the wrong bar:  loiter-ditch young women...
penciled eyebrows, boob tattoos of emergency room faces.
To them you are no more than old age bone-scars.

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