by Beau Boudreaux

I leaf through
__the initial wisp of autumn
putting down the hammer
__subtle hues -- brush strokes
unfocused, only the paint, the ache
__on this wrist, that pose
of you canvassing the Ozarks
__small, many muscles -- your back
roll me over, glance
__the Eastern coast, a comely
drawl, you finger the tire
__wheels spreading leaves
dust like chalk
__sets the sun of your skin.

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