Autumn pretends to have the answers
Ask me, we unfailingly fall for questions
like a debrief bereft of particulars
or the white lies in a third act shadow play

this silhouette season
this trace of treason
vending comfort to a cold
and the bitterly bare

but we stare at the pizzazz,
jazz, and razzmatazz
and cop to the
copper as the folio
falls

A Warm Hustle.
whistling up,
wind chill.

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