September (a poem)



isn’t the same
since it laid itself out
on the lane
fooling me
with doggo-ness
and dogginess.

It plays a double game.

Muddy prints in the hall
and an earthy smell
in the deeds
where it nuzzles 12th
among the heretofors.

And in the graveyard
where it barks 15th
and will bite
for as long
as granite lasts.



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