(Poems) september’s stillness

I put the bullet in my mouth 

(the bullet that is september),

and I wait for it to go off.

the metal is still warm from august,

the taste getting heavier on the way:

this is the best time of year,

but what’s it worth?

there have been better septembers

and better years with better times.

the leaves will be the color of 

red aching and yellow longing.

I’ll spit the bullet out

when it doesn’t go off.

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