Late fall, still here.
Five-lobed high-heel pink, and I, this
Late fall, still hear. . . .
Explore related work
Derek N. Otsuji “Oh, yes, they sing,” my mother said / When she would tuck me into bed / And tell me of the song. . . .
We can’t stop counting backwards & why not? Tonight’s moon, blood- / blistering her eclipse as our necks crane star-ward, should be answer. . . .
Before leaves lose their green, the season sighs a beat / in September, a pause, & once-ferocious weeds / die back. . . .
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