always casual with thought
and broken teeth grinding quiet,
forever tiptoeing
past my good intentions
wondering if they'll forgive me.
My pain shoots at me
in response to inquiry,
missing again
the avarice
I want to own
but can't even borrow.
Meanwhile the siren songs of autumn
rise like Lazarus through the fall
in the guise of the suburban leafblower,
more certain than death.
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