On the horizon, thin and without reason
October scribbles across the sky in empty limbs
a pinch from a preseason tyrant—the month coughing like a blade retracting
behind a black curtain, disease haunts the stage
shadows long, so certain, so long, everybody
burning summer’s sickly sonnets
in fires barely hot enough to choke smoke
the children contemplate half-emerging skeletons
on the beach, they do not know their parents
or which few of them will pull through
as the tide pulls back, October reveals
bony white reflections in the salty water
there is no votive, no hymn
for their wordless struggle
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Friday Writings #198: October Writes
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