leaves

cold, packed rice

soon, I said to him. the one wearing
the same dark blue racing jacket
fished out of a green bin. the one
with the same white plastic
hairs jetting from his reddish
brown beard.

soon, he said. the leaves
will again howl in a
light tornadic scrape. you
will remove brittle bi-color
blades from your shoulder, your
thinning hair, under
boot. change
is
good, he said.

soon, it will be another go
round under an illuminated
light gray. and

just like the ex-lover, this
will be temporal and musings
of her/this season will be
like a middle aged man driving
his Jaguar middle
lane in Newport Beach to get

sushi from that place that
always has a table ready just
for
him.

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