what will be November has already made husks of what once was aaaaI work fast against nearing dusk the sky charcoal streaked untying stalks from stakes vines collapse withered fruit, now tombs for cutworm, roll away tired soil soon tucked under sheets of russet leaves my beds readied for hibernation aaaaI pause cheek on rake wood worn smooth and want my own gestation deep silence to swaddle me stretch womb wide a season of my own making from what once...
