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james autio bio
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david disarro bio
autumn in a graveyard
road poems
after the wake

Autumn in a Graveyard

David R. DiSarro    


Droplets soak in slow, the tombstones

darken from gray to black, we chuckle

about the weather and how October

is supposed to be the sunniest month.

Puddles collect around our feet,

the ground freshly packed and settling,

sinking she is coughing, deep. 


We came here to fuck over the dead

and spill life onto the ground, but her breath

escapes and the woodstoves ravage her

throat and lungs, not the cancer  

too easy to blame the seasons

for everything that is dying. 



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