the wind here creaks the canes it sounds like the cat
screwing on a
silencer the windmill on a long-dead pump
held not quite still by my last really high denier
stocking does rust grow
faster in the cold
is the long green moss
on rocks bashed by the
sea
as happy for the end of summer as my hair
happy to let all that doing
slide and just hang on into
the long black night of being
a survival instinct not frozen
at the core
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