back between your cobbled trees rubbing your toes in clover trying not to steal anything from anyone.
stuffed my beloved. autumn in a box.
that's the thing about a magpie, about clanking the rackety dial around, turning in a quarter, everybody wins.
shiny things we leave in dark places to remember where we came from, to move away or move back accordingly.
shadow puppets canoodled on tree trunks. riding buses in the rain. a charlie chaplin yellow umbrella tattooed on my wrist.
this week the paperbox tells me the same thing pressed in newsprinted piles, stacks of hollow advice weather-rusted like a stump.
apples to apples, dust to dust.
trust yourself kid, trust yourself or you'll fuck it all up.
i don't know who these planets think they are, deciding my weeks like this, contorting the stars just so, just so i can't find my way back if my mind changes.
as it turns out, a day without wind is maddening.
or, a windless afternoon is better for juggling.
but those dead leaves just hang on the tree, not falling, having to wear the mask of indian summer, breathing strained, shallow
little caterpillar eye-holes poked, covered.
one copper penny apiece.
.
