The clock’s pendulum strikes the gong
The pulley pulls readying it for another strike
Outside the leaves have been swept in the curbs
Even before they turn brown, flame red and gold
Impatience goad the blossoming and ripening
Not allowing them to stay awhile as green and sour
Hot housing and hurrying their reddening
Sweet and acrid to the taste, gritty to the tongue
If it has not
been by now it will never be
You have shunned others and they, in turn,
Have left you recalling false remembrances
Fantasies trying to be real yet in a blink are
lost
In desolate streets as you nail signs on rickety
posts
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