Aren’t you cold?
the wind swept up the solemn yellow leaves, along with my
solemn yellow feet,
and dusted off the crumbs of yester-was
from the hem of my puffer...
I hold your heart in my hand,
it holds itself in my palm,
my palm holds itself onto your heart…
Hold your eyes a bit longer and soon, you too,
can hold mine…
(Silence. I shivered from the core, to no avail)
Meanwhile, Amber October and Brown November lie like crumpled,
dryad carcasses beside my feet.
Hm, I said,
the skin on my fingers have frittered away from
countless, dead hours
in colorless computers,
but alas, not from the cold.
Hmm, I said,
the skin on my fingers
hangs like a nail.
Never have I thought an unwise flick of a wrist could render me an onion.
A curt laugh, cheap,
cheap-cheap, like the swallows.
(Silence. We both shivered from the core, to no avail)
does he love me? no, he was just making small-talk.