on dotty days lost in
a billowing haze of crimson
lingerie and perfume merry-go-
rounds that lifted us up

in sweet anisette but were
dropped to the ground like
a smoking cigarette. The fickle sky
painted orange didn't

blossom. It turned into
marmalade hurling its seeds
on our show parade. Burning
a hole in the horizon

that plundered our dreams
and covered our eyes in
shards of irascible men that died
at sunrise from the ink of a pen.

lights a saffron ribbon sky
in a tie-dye of rosemary and
thyme. She sits strawberry cheeks
pressed like rose petals against

the windowpane, watching the rain
sprinkle the glass. Her eyes pool of
parsley leaves stringing crimson memories
with a twist of lemon rind. The ring

of the bell swells the reverie
in cardamom and chili. Dressed in
cotton turmeric, hair swirls of
cinnamon sticks she picks at her

scabs. Her world is peppered with salty
dogs she logs in books. In script she hooks
them with her lines. Drinks her *** with mint
and lime. And falls in bed before nine.

bar filled with strawberry
cream. A sugar confection,
that will fatten the lean. She’s an
orange rind, the peel. Not

a slice. She’s the whole
cheese wheel. She's a crystal
decanter of sherry, the
aperitif. The au jus on

the roast beef. She's golden
toast and blueberry jam. Honey
in the tea, mint sauce on
the lamb. She's red velvet cake

swimming in swirls of cream
cheese frosting. You'll get
a tummy ache. She's wholly
exhausting!

like a tape
he tried to erase. He talked
over me.  And altered history
like it was tight pants he let out,

after he grew stout. Coughed up
like a strand of spaghetti
caught in his tonsils. He
fought hard to expel. Blown

out like a sneeze, scattered
in the breeze. I was hanging
in the air, like kitten claws on
daddy's grey tweed

chair. Dropped
like a bowel movement
and flushed down the sewer
after he roasted me on a skewer.

inside a glass
bulb. Passing her days
trying to move when it's up
to her waist. A tiny silt

turned mountain in
size. When did the world
tilt /climb up to her thighs? When
did it fall through so

fast? When did a sandbox
of toys turn a vast prison? And
the floor risen up to the neck? All in
a sliver, a glowing red speck. Grit

stuck in her teeth spilling
into her nose. Filling
her nostrils and inside her
clothes. Growing hives on

her arms like wasps spawn
on the branch of a tree. She'll not  
breathe. It'll swallow her whole
as it buckles her knees.

like a tendril, a thin thread
clutching to anything she can
wrap herself around. Get her
off the ground. A climbing vine. She

twines over her past. A phyllotaxis
crisscrossing like frosting on
a cake. Like feathers on
a drake she loses

her tail. Like the shell of a snail,
a whorl. This girl is falling
up. Like a pinecone she twists
in both directions, breaking

off in sections. Coiled up like
a viper, moonshine eyes
and hyper. And like a spring
she bounces off everything.

are calling. Momma's
on the line. She's commanding you
to see her. But she's been dead
a long, long time. She's banging

against your windowpane in
torrents of yellow rain. Voices cannot
be silenced. A hurricane whip through
your head and wet the sheets,

as if it's raining on your queen sized
bed. Sleep brings on the nightmares. But
woke memories spoke of nails scratching
on the chalkboard that rake you like

autumn leaves. The woman was
a tease, like a comb through afro
hair. And she had you on your knees
and sat on you like grandma’s chair.

around. It's pouring down
inside my walls. I paint them bright
red with cherry gloss. But like moss,
I'm flowerless and haven't

roots. I grow in the damp. She left
her stamp on me with the palm
of her hand, burning into my
face. On my back is an imprint

of her shoe, with colors black
and blue. They match the hue
of the midnight sky. The only thing
I own that shines. She died in

her cocoon. She didn't turn into
a flying stained glass of orange
gold. She didn't pass on those colors.
But she did pass.

and Candy Canes
of childhood cannot coat  
stains of switches. Witch’s broom
sweeps the dirt under the carpet

in every room. Monsters
underneath the bed don’t tell
tales. But they’re not dead. They’re
alive in a little girl’s curly

head. Ribbons and satin dresses
in white don’t cover rips and
holes in floral tights. It’s all
boxed up under the tree. Metallic

tinsel hangs like a flapper’s
dress. Guests stand outside the door
to become one of her décor. Glass
decanters hold amber gold

they swallow down. But they can
not hold a conversation without
screams. They mix it in their coffee
with sugar and cream.

singing on my Maple, a staple
holding my pages together
by wires. But she tires
like autumn’s

sun. Turning her green to
yellow, cooling the air
between us.  She was
carried off in a breeze,

letting go like a sneeze. I was
ill-prepared.  How well we
paired! Branches hung with smiles
and notes are flung like acorns

afloat on a riverbed. Colors bled
deep velvet red. Silence, a knife
slices through my life as a sword
hitting every chord.

dancing pirouettes
in front of my eyes.  Floaters
that jump up with surprise. Dimples
of cellulite on both of my thighs. They're

the grease on my kitchen stove. Circles
in my pantyhose. Embedded in
my carpet like carpenter ants. They
do the fandango every month

inside of my pants. The brown
stamp of aging on both of my
hands. They're cute
on dalmatians but not on

my pans. They litter my face
like debris on the beach. And
they're painted on my liver
like navy shirts thrown in

with whites and bleach. And X
marks it on a treasure I cannot
reach. And the sun coats my body
with freckles from the beach.

wherever I go. They're high
as a mountain covered in
snow. They're deep as a valley
and swim around my head. They're

under my covers and rotate my
bed. They squeeze me tight like
a Charley horse, pushing me back
with all their g-force. I bump into them

stone cold sober, raking them up
like leaves in October. They're thick as
a French accent. And hasn't been one
I can circumvent!

does nothing. You
cannot put that on. You can
not turn that off. It rolls over
into the next year, like a dog

waiting for a scratch
on his belly. Chasing a tale
is like chasing a breeze. It blows
up the tree of the old oak. Like

wearing smoke for a coat. It
does not warm. A nameless
face in the crowd. This makeup is
a narrative screaming out

loud with no resound. Nobody
grows. Nobody dies. It's sits
like a beehive minus the bees
and honey. The box rots in

the sun. The drawers spun
with dust and spilled
promises. Broken crusts and
olive branches.

like gravy on mashed
potatoes. Coated in the sauce
swimming on and around
I was lost. Drowning out

my light, covered in
a blanket of white laying over
me. I turned ash from green, hitting
a deep freeze. Like brown leaves
in autumn choking my velvet

bottom. At first, he was cool
and sweet like whipped cream
on a sundae. I dived into
his dish like an Olympic gold

medalist. But seasons change, and
with it, purple rain. A clouded sky of pink
elephants marching by. Now I’m a wispy
willow smothered in a drink and pillow.

sitting like a stone
in your stomach. Like a branch
a dunnock perches on. The drone
of a deadbeat song. The lull of

a rainy afternoon when you
open the door, your skin wrinkled
like a prune. Your wet hair matted
to your face like grey cardigan wool

that pills. But you cannot shave off. So,
you toss it in your bedroom drawer,
along with the cards and pictures of him.
Cheers to the years you were green

and slim. This pain was an ice pick
chipping at you, the man’s tool! Now
it’s a rusty piece of metal that lost shine.
Cannot cut an orange rind. But it’s keeping time.

are white chocolate kisses
melting on crimson lips
rolling off and doing
a flip into her wine

Her teardrops
are smoky
like sitting at a bar
surrounded by cigars
doing pirouettes and
jumping cigarettes

Her teardrops
are frozen
jagged icicles
hanging off the eaves
like long sleeves
on my baby brother

Her teardrops
are milky
like ricotta cheese
in clumps
a mountain high
piled on a pizza pie

with her painted gaze
of striped marmalade
sips champagne. Tulips with
their swollen heads bite red

licorice skies into shreds. Lilies
trumpet their repose on a thorny
crusted crimson rose. A dancing
breeze blows by, taking whiffs

of momma's apple pie. It’ sitting
on the windowsill catching morning's
autumn chill. A painting of the
afternoon is strewn with golden

leaves and bushy tails of grey. They
ricochet from tree to tree playing
a game of hide and seek. The buzzing
honeybee is flirting with

my drink. And in a wink the scene
has turned to wood burned fires
and cold powdery nights. Just right
for a glass of wine and candlelight.

I was minus twenty-one,
young in the head. You stood
*****, not bent. Chestnuts
roasting below your brow. My *******

milky as a momma cow. Tulips
danced on your driveway. Marigolds
curtsied in marmalade. It’s years since
we cut the ribbon. What a feast

that Thanksgiving! You poured
gravy all over my lumps. I stood
bent in high-heeled pumps over
your knees. I was carrots and you

the peas. Yesterday was
years ago.  I lost it along with
my keys. It fell asleep in a deep-
freeze. I thaw it out in the middle

of night with a lemon wedge
in my ***** and sprite. Drinking
bubbles down, wearing pancake
make-up. I’m a clown.

to the big house, with gables
and the long tar driveway
with fray chestnut shingles
when I'd mingle with them,

when the door was ajar,
and I drove a cranberry red
four sedan car. I cannot rewind
the clock to afternoons filled

with laughs and talk, ***** jokes
and schemes. Dreams broke off
like branches taken by the
wind. This old body is wrinkled

and thinned. Some turned
to dust. Some like fallen leaves
turned rust. I, myself drink those
summers like a bottle of wine

when the sky was cornflower. We
had time to make all those plans,
that fell through like sand on a sieve,
the ones we cannot, no never relive.

chocolate, melting in
the boy's hand, smudging
my colors all over his face,
with a little red ribbon pasted

in place.  A bunny, hollow
inside. I split open as he bit
into my side. He peeled off
pieces of me, and they fell off

like bark shedding from
a tree. I was not filled,
like the solid bunnies, that
had firmer and rounded

tummies. I had edges poking
out. My sweet lips curled into
a pout. But my foil was fourteen carat
gold shiny. I was cute for one so tiny.

She's Red

as a painted evening
sky. Red as the algae
dyed tide. She was pink
on the day she was born. Pink

frilly dresses and ribbons
she'd worn.  But then her blood
curdled like sour milk that's left
in the refrigerator, sitting for

weeks. Her rivulet eyes
and puffy apple cheeks. Her little
hands clenched like clams
on the beach. Her curls stuck

to her nape wet from her
sweat, ******* her thumb like
a leech. But it wasn't a breast
filled with sweet cream. She didn't

digest between all the
night screams. As she grew
she saw red on her white
cotton sheets!! And she'd go to

the store to buy red for her lips
and her cheeks. Red's what she wore
the day daddy left her there sobbing
at the front door.

If Life was

a backdrop
I'd roll up the cloth to change
the screen, from raining
clouds to a forest of emerald,

green. Or if it was a movie reel,
I'd edit it, slicing the negatives
from black to teal. Leaving out
frost and ice, a palm and

pink sand paradise. Or what if
it was a painting of
a storm, electric bolts and
crashing seas. Men left as dregs

like tea leaves. I'd take it down
from the wall, and hang lavender
fields under mountains high,
on crystal lakes, a tie-dye sky.

my front lawn,
as I'm raking the autumn
leaves.  Eyes follow me
to my backyard from

the street. Eyes sit heavy
in their grey Chevy as I bag
crimson and yellow. Eyes
lit the dark like a spark from

a smoldering cigarette. Eyes
haven't a body, just a silhouette against
the rock. Eyes that stalk leave me
with the creeps. I get rattled by

darting peeps. Eyes on my body,
drink me up like a hot toddy. Black
as tea burning a hole in the ground,
round like a bowl follow me around.

she'll break out of
the bottle. She's been
pushing from within, akin
to a babe in the womb. Except

the womb is now her
room. In vintage blue glass
hours pass like the seasons,
with no rhyme or with no

reasons. Colored red, and
spread out like clouds
painted on the sky. They lie. They're
all genies out there, in navy suits

and striped ties, pleated skirts,
tweed blazers and cotton
shirts. On white walls men blurt. So,
do I. It's how I pass the time.

of night I saw the light through
my neighbor's window. Hunched over
the screen, playing solitaire. His queen
off in another room. And I on my

deck drinking ***** staring into
his womb. He clicks the mouse to
shuffle a card. Our house's so close
like we share the same yard. And we

share the same loneliness too. My king
is off inside. I saw him through
the lamplight. And today the world has
this news of the president elect. It's the red
people choose. And it's so mad that

I'm in the blue, alone in the dark
at five o'clock! Giving myself another
excuse to drink. And I'll ink this in some
literary magazine, and it'll get some
likes from those drag queens.

on my chest as a buttoned
vest. It's a stone I carry
in my purse for better or
worse. I have wings inside

my cage. But they've grown dull
as I have aged. Quiet days blend
into dark fitful nights. The only
shine is my lamp light. My pen,

my only friend. It's there in the morning
with my coffee. And doesn't speak
back to me. Where I place it is
where it stays. It lies on the table

next to the sunflowers and cable. Fits
like a glove in my hand. Everything goes
as planned. All inside the squares,
in a house with empty chairs.

like a quick rain shower on a summer's
day. Like the crimson leaves when
they catch autumn's breeze. Like
a blanket of snow as the afternoon

sun glows. Like the cornflower
sky when the stars blink their sleepy
eye. Like the emerald grass when
the ice sticks like a body cast. Like a

sweet dream into a morning cup
of coffee and cream. Like a memory
in a picture frame, and the light
from a dying flame. She fades away,

a young girl. Her long hair
short and grey. Her porcelain skin
wrinkled, hanging on a double
chin. Soon too, she will fade like the moon.

falling like monkeys
out of the trees, red, yellow
and orange. Pouring down
on me, a blanket of colored

leaves. Sticking to the sidewalk,
wet from last night's rain. Hanging
like a goblin on the window
pane. Clogging up the

gutters. Dangling like silver
tinsel on my half moon
shutters. Piling up in my backyard
like a mountain of laundry. I rake them

and I bag them. They only fall back
down. I blow them with the electric
blower. And they still come back
around. They're all over my deck and

woven in my hair. They must be
building a nest in there! Swirling
like confetti, they tease.
Leaves! Leaves! Leaves!

a binky in her mouth,
like a mint cigarette, hoping
******* on the rubber ******
will quiet her down just

a little. She's a prickly opuntia,
an irascible radical, a fanatical
sphere. You cannot soften her
blow by closing the window. She'll

rise through the floorboards
towards you as you slumber. Ride
you like a four-wheel Hummer,
leaving tracks on your back. No

escape. She'll squash you in rhinestone
stilettos like a concord grape. Turn you
into crimson wine. Drink you up with
a plastic plate of roasted swine.

to me. He listens to them
spill their problems. Falls asleep
with pills he stores in his bedroom
drawer. Flirts with the ladies

in Rome. A husband and
a father. Has two homes, one up
north and one down south.  Drones
over dinner.  He's grown thinner

with age. But easy to engage. He likes
*** loud, but his woman soft as a fleece
bathrobe. Travels the globe. He's a
cartoon character wearing baseball

caps, flapping his gums in-between
afternoon naps. I read his lines,
and he mine. And that is that. One thing
I'll say - we never fall flat.

to me? The thick cherry
gloss is brushed on her cracked
lips. Bent over the table she slips
on the dangling conversation

wearing a red pencil smile drawn
on from this morning. She takes
a heavy breath from her burning
cigarette. We look like two

silhouettes against the
paisley prints covering the walls
behind the smoke screen. I nod
as if listening, while sipping

***** and lime, and eying
my cell for the time. And my head
is on the ceiling that's peeling
like layers of an onion, dangling

like the conversation, but not breaking
off. She streaks the glass, leaving an
imprint with her mouth. I hail the waiter
for the check, so I can check out.

the mobile, the one with the
elephants riding on wheels. Box
the toy clown, that smiles even
turned upside down, the little jumper

you tied to the door and the
swing, the red yo-yo on a string. All the
Dr. Seuss books that rhyme every
line. The yellow blanket with holes,  

the size 1 shoes with leather
soles. Thomas the tank videos,
that matched the painted wooden trains
with the connected track, that now

has several cracks. Put away your sing-
song voice and patty-cake hands,
the nursing bra and stuffed lambs. You
can't keep him small. He's over six feet tall!

in a quilted cornflower blanket
and set it on fire. I'll puncture
a hole in the thick of it, till it
flattens like a tire. I'll package

it and ship it off to sunny
Mexico, taking with it all the ice
and the heavy snow. I'll rip pages
off the calendar till May,  

taking November through April
minus two days. Leaving Thanksgiving
and Christmas there to stay. Or else
I'll hibernate like a bear and sleep

the months away, rolled up like
cigarettes in the mountains of Tibet
till the frosty air makes my breath dance
pirouettes on the stratosphere.

on her apple cheeks
between her egg white peaks
and the cherry rose
she calls her nose.

Planting kisses
in her wheat spaghetti hair
scented like ocean
air.

Planting kisses
on the crook of her nape
tasting like strawberry
crepes.

Planting kisses
down her spine till
she tingles, on her toes
and on her wrinkles.

Planting kisses
on her wispy arms,
that spread like wings
and her open palms.

Planting kisses
on her bellybutton, and
fingertips. So many
places to kiss, not only lips.

the two of us
in fields of green. I haven't
seen him in years, since
that day we paraded around

the chairs. The cherry
red tomato, donning an
embroidered cap, in colors
every day, navy blue, tan or grey

that hides his bald-pate. He throws
his salted lines a title, he underlines
peppered in black. And I sit
back and read how he plants his

seeds in a wooden bowl of
dreams. I'm cut up like an onion,
in rings. He's a cool cucumber dancing
in springs of parsley, dressing it down.

following him around in his souped
up Honda, looking like Jane
Fonda. Eating plates of greasy
food from diners, from Maine

to the Carolinas. Sleeping in cheap
motels flashing bright neon signs. Driving
over state lines. Stopping in Florida
for a break he breaks out in a sweat as he eyes

the college girls in Daytona beach. The ones
wearing thong bikinis, holding peach bellini’s
in their hands. Not that they'd ever look at the old
man. The guy writing poetry in the sand. The guy

married to the same woman. They both lost
their youth. Like a pulled tooth there's a big
space where it was. But he still has his
tongue that he wags. Eating lunch out of

paper bags and drinking bottled beer
out of the cooler, sitting in beach chairs
and scratching the stubble of hairs on his face
as he faces another day that he doesn’t get laid.

babe, even if you see me
standing on the doorstep. I'm a half
step into another world. My breath's
hanging in the air and the wind

blowing through my hair is just
a visual of a woman caught on film,
the shutter of a camera lens. This scene
you capture and post diagnosed

in a still frame signing your last
name is a proxy. I'm in Greece and
in Spain, just stepped off the
plane. In a villa overlooking the sea,

sipping mimosas, eating brie, shaded
only by the palms. Just the thought
of it calms. No, I'm not here. Babe,
I'm upstairs.

and for lunch eat
fettuccini wrapping the vanilla
strands tight as bird nests in
my hands. I want to lay out in

the sun till I'm golden brown
like a loaf of bread and dip and
splash till I'm waterlogged
and lobster red. Don't call me in

for dinner. I'm listening
to Lynyrd Skynyrd. Big wheels
keep on turning. I'm burning up
the old 45's. It's here I am

alive. The leaves don't fall
off the trees. All I wear is
shorts/no sleeves, flip-
flops and a wide-brim hat,

sitting in a lounge chair with
wooden slats. Sipping frozen
drinks out of paper straws. Life is
better put on pause.

for her, from acorns on
the oak tree, pelting her deck
like a roughneck, to her saggy
pertless breast, that cannot sit

straight on her chest, to strands of
her honey hair clogging the drain
in her bathroom tub. So, the water's
moving slower than a slug as

she's lifting the plug. It's hard
getting old. She's cold all the time
as the sun falls from the sky
and blackness starts at five. Leaves

fall with her, and wither like her
aging skin. If she had back her younger
days she'd fall for the boy next store,
not ******* the kitchen floor.

in tight quarters for hours
like sheep, with scorching heat
beating down. Following
the herds walking around

the ropes like
a zombie for a five-
minute wonky ride that
shakes your inside like a

bowl of strawberry jelly. Strapped
smashed together in narrow
seats is a man with a big belly
that shakes like a bowl of

strawberry jelly. In pitch
blackness surrounded by
screams. Ten thousand dollars
for the American dream!

disjointed people. You're heads
and I'm tails. I'm a warm breeze. You’re
a gusty gale. I'm slow and you're
fast. You walk right past

me, taking the lead. Like a herd of
bison, disappearing over the
horizon.   I'm bottom and you're
top. I'm the first floor. You're

the elevator. You're moon and
and I'm sun. Your day ends. Mine’s
begun.  I'm summer and you're
winter. We splinter as a broken

tree. And fly off as the autumn
leaves.  I'm the sea and you're
the shore.  We're a paper torn in
half. You're edited and I'm the rough draft.

cold as New England
winters. Fallen like wood from
an axe in shards shaped and
sharp as tacks in my back

yard. My pieces are pine
needles spread over a patch of
yellow blanket. Cause I look like
litter to the fox and the hound

as they go. I dry to a dullish
brown and blend in with the ground
as the sun thawed the snow. Men
trod with boots and squirrels

paw with their claws, leaving me
turned up as autumn leaves. I
bottom out in the eaves. A paste of
mud and stick is me.

tonight, in the backyard. They're
falling hard from the sky, like bowling
***** squashing apple pie. They snort
and grunt from a mile, landing on top

of each other in a pig pile. Ma says
I'm mistaken. I say prepare ye, for
some bacon. I took out the frying pan
and turned on the overhead fan. Smoke

will fill this tiled kitchen. But it'll be
finger-lickin’. Men and women will
stop by for a whiff of pig fry. Morning
sun chased the wheel cheese

moon. Bellies swell like hot
air balloons. When life hands you pigs
mountains in size for lunch we will
serve ham sandwiches and fries!

like a steel needle stuck
in the track of a record on
the old Victrola. But now it's like
cherry cola without the fizz. I've

broken into pieces these words
of his. The reds and the blues I've cut
like tile and let them fall in a pile
on top of my dresser drawer. I can pave

a path to Bangor with the yellows
and the black, and trace my way
back to the day. The grey cockatiel
flying around my head repeats,

repeats. His words bled/out my eyes,
nose and ears. And has not stopped
in all these years. A mosaic
of his face warped in time and space.

his hot words like candle
wax, separating the whites from
the blacks then I could relax
into the greys. And gather sage.

If I could melt
down his rage like April
snow by the afternoon I’d see it
go. Underneath it the spring,
and tufts of feathers from the robin.

If I could melt
the past into a song
I'd weep when I sang it,
but still make me strong. I'd pierce
through the flames like the phoenix bird
and rebirth.

in. The days are paper thin
that I can crush them in
my hands like a wafer. It's like
a chafer eating the roots. I can

not flower shoots in a black
tar sky. With coating on my wings
so heavy I cannot fly. I sink
down early like the sun, as squirrels

on the run. Falling like the crimson
leaves, hung over like my roof's
eaves I grow derision in the
gutters.  June, July and August

flutters like a butterfly over hills
and cornflower sky. I retire early to
my grey sofa with a book and a mimosa
to drift off…

is strung by a grey thread
rolling off my four-post bed
at night till the light of a
screaming morn when I sew it

back on with a line from a
song. I'm a bobblehead doll nodding
to the crowds. Floating high like
a balloon, getting lost in the clouds

in a marmalade sky. My head is loose
you can spoon it up like chocolate
mousse. I lost it so many times shopping
for bargains at the five and dime. It fell

between the wooden slats, and was
scratched by a feral cat. I'm like a headless
chicken, running around. Like roux for
the gravy one can say I’ve been thickened.

again, a blend of strawberry fruit
and champagne cake. I lost it by
the lake, sitting in the sedges. It was
old with yellow edges. It floated

like a paper boat, making
illegible every line I wrote. It took
a couple hairpin turns around
the bend and past the ferns. Then

the wind whipped it
south. And it was swallowed
up by a big bass mouth. I tried
to mimic the recipe. But

it was not my specialty. I tried
searching for one just like
it. But they came out flat and ****,
even dining a la carte.

and I earth. He blinded
me with the sun and took from me
my berth. He hiccupped clouds
the size of trains, and poured on

fields of honey plains. He blew
his hot breath like a whistle making
the tall grass scrape my knees like
a bristle. He threw thunderbolts

sharp as pins encircling me
like shark fins. In the cold inky
blackness I skated on his frozen
madness. He dribbled hail of

basketballs breaking the door
of my sugar walls. And cut the moon
like cheese into wedges, driving
his hammer through my hedges.

lying in honey plains,
making chains of daisy
flowers, dancing pirouettes in  
rainbow showers. Skipping

stones in the muddy
river. Watching them bounce,
those silver slivers. Spying the
heron stalking a fish. Seeing if he

delivers the deed in one fell
swoop. Laughing as the otter
swims loop de loop. Catching a
whiff of fallen acorns. The squashed

oak fruit intense as the
day warms. Crimson branches of
leaves wave. The ****** again
gave the old tree a shave!