Now the sun is in autumn: crisp and moonlit the night before last, palely bright yesterday, today already grey and granite-clouded—if still greener—as November. More than any other, this season for me is stamped and overstamped with past years, so that there are fossils in each amber sunset, currents of faces in the chilling turn of the wind. I am returning home by an older route. I am reading by the wrong light. This is not the bed I should wake up in. Maybe it's not that the ghosts rise up at this time of year so much as I begin to feel like one myself. Two days ago, a hawk was brooding in the honey locust. The grapevines are tangling to the earth.
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- 1: Sit thee down and put them on
- 2: My life's a crooked mess of things I've broken with my head
- 3: ?פֿאַר װאָס זאָל איך אײַך געבן דירה-געלט אַז די קיך איז צעבראָכן
- 4: A second flood, a simple famine, plagues of locusts everywhere
- 5: So Krishna stole the butter, did he?
- 6: When I invited Frank and you back to mine for a mange tout when I meant ménage à trois
- 7: The shadows on the walls don't recognize me anymore
- 8: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 9: This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now
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- Style: Classic for Refried Tablet by and
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