Typed Music

Poems.

I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.

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76. Into the Hinge

Leaf mould and apple rot
Taint the pavements
And the breaths we draw above them
Misty
With the perfumes
Of late November

Day
Constitutes an ever-waning chink
Between the door and the frame we put it in

It doesn’t seem all that long ago that September died
Yet all have been wearied grey since
In one passionate night
The trees were all torn naked
So they tremble
Patient
While the rains and the frosts skim their bones

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