swig season

an average sized poem posed over the hole of sun, which dimmed mercifully. meanwhile collegiate moon drained off fullness and went with the winter extreme towards snow, the flat brokerage fee of stubblefield. the cat climbs up to investigate the season of miracle and streetwise. we forget. years eat everything. stayed home to examine why these colours particularly, when so many. the poem finds its wheel and leg, struggles with words, and days mean a lot of wiggle room. until you street clean, you are leaves from the overdue wind. autumn fakes out. snow is illusion, spring can't hold a candle. is it then summer? summer is a poem.