Your grave hooded by goose bumped leaves; the chill of late autumn’s breeze has them dry, copper colored, spotted sickly yellow; they sneeze.
A Summer Blackout
Baba’s faults were pouched in me, so red and erratic that they had blown the power in the northeastern half of the country. From our stoop, we feel the night sponging up the heat wave. The concrete steps practice prose on my thighs.