The wind is an old trumpet
Chasing the streets
What good is taking on
Your best suit
And walk the streets
Searching for the wasted years?
The pavement is wrapped
In a blanket of yellow leaves
You whisper the truth
As green turns into red
Remembering faces
You think you never saw
This is the gateway to November
An island of silence
And yet:
A phone is buzzing in your shoe
But you do not hear it
From under the blanket
From your dream of
A bottle of white wine
Waiting to be mixed
With a bottle of summer
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