the somber beanpot autumn heard goodbye.

i missed out this autumn with
its snow-leaves falling
like paper femme fatals, small,
who, if they can have you,
will not want to.

and in the season's
retrospect of bridge-ash,
one is forced to walk the dawn contented
with the swinging deadweight
of his own manhood.

it was a lovely game, in which the recieving end
of unrequited love would eat our quarters
and once was ear-to-ear
about her love until 
the bough-breaking
city-german-bicycle-girl branches
brought the cradle down.

-the well-fated introduction seemed
at first respondant.
-the low-ambitions grew hesitant.
-cutout holsters watched the twenty-pace
engagement steps unfurl
without impatience.

the peace that settled brought a haystack needle chase
for our contentment when
our plastic soldiers bit their feeding-hands
and the wood floors turned us out.

so that the drawn out deathnote of
the early autumn's canopy spread
yellow corn against our night-light home
as we walked, backlit by the patient swaying
of the carolinas' understory.

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