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OCTOBER
October
sheds menstrual leaves.
Trees
are veins in the sky’s womb.
October
drifts in a foggy dress
letting
her blood splash dreamy feet.
Even
her feet are asleep. She is
happy
to
let her heart go, the summer over.
A
white mist at the orchard’s end.
All
that Lincoln green macerated, gone.
The
harvest wars left fratricidal retreats.
She
welcomes the cold. No more
lovemaking.
Alan
Marshfield
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