Autumn and the mysterious cylindrical rumble of leaves,
unfettered by the cornucopia of symbology,
only the scrape of orange, yellow, red on the drive,
while inside there's the immortality of dust.
And the kitchen phone hanging by its cord,
twisted in an aria.
Her body, prone, but still breathing,
reaches but cannot quite hang on.
Heavy breathing, a puddle of sweat, a pool of urine,
staining her flowered skirt,
searing pain twitching from hip to skull,
while a recording repeats,
"You must now hang up."
The slow chaos aging brings,
the sure evaporation of an order beyond love.
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