where the writers are
In autumn death’s harmony is alive

in autumn the word ‘light’ becomes deformed
and fumes
on manuscripts galactic cities
inhabited by aphasic crowds

- pitching into an apple’s gloss -

the eggplant toaster crystallizes a mist
with thousands of ovoid layers
through which alien hands liquefy
their original tissue
on the banister of the word ‘autumn’

your body in the kitchen’s windowsill
vibrates like the nocturnal pellicle
of the unseen’s
fever

in autumn death’s harmony is alive

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