Plaster falling
            from the ceiling
in damp umber leaves
trees dark green and
weighted down with what
      they soon will drop.
A rush to disappear
            into books   into
the comfort of human
cycles when light cracks
            through the geometry
of fall   falling into lines
and patterns that form
            the first strokes
of an alphabet of decay
                    or anyway
of consequence
            not comfort.
O teach me how I should
            forget to read it.
S Robbins, from Readings, September 14, 2020

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