The nights have turned the
leaves against themselves while
my rooms have remained warm
until this 4am. I won’t complain.
I’ll simply listen to the wind,
its inroads of red and gold
and rust, a pell-mell artistry,
a mishmash of bedlam aloft.
Autumn is a shawl about my
shoulders, and a warm bowl of
lobster bisque. No, I won’t be