An Elegy for Middle America

young innocence will smell big orange gourds experience not long enough for words
in autumn's cascade windchime's quietesse inflects tears toward the holiday's largesse
for yes the chimes have turned to rust and dust amongst the felled the falling leaves of must
of had-to-be our late-night lives contrived at dusk precluding us to convivive

when palpitating past the point of no return the anger only years can know

untethered morning chirps the beats of freedom near diagonal neon streets
lead on memories in temperate winds pierced by convincing melodies for kin
an armour smelt to sheaths are skins our vision no one knows and seethes

which only one can use which don't run out

the path crisp light of doubt