Stet

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The author wishes to revise
The late summer’s riotous plot—
The gourd, the liquored grapes, and flies
Besotted where the apples rot.
 ·
There’s hesitance at first and yet
There always comes the killing frost;
And then not one forgiving stet
To spare so little as the moth.
 ·
It ought to be enough to live
And let the season have its say,
Accepting what the short days give
And what the long months take away;
 ·
And yet there’s something in me burled,
Counter to the grain, knowing
Whatever expurgates the world
Might well choose me the next one going.
 ·
Change will come but I’ll always prefer
The crass defiance of the crow
Plopped on a spit of long-dead fir—
A quarrelsome smudge condemning the snow.
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by me, Patrick Gillespie | November 4th 2015