September, The park's a yellow marquee in the sky. I return to reading a certain book, one that's still unwritten; the words are beessettling to brittleness. Glass buttons in a jar, and underworld DNA spirals coding in the blood. I miss you now, your name's an elegy stamped on the walls. Red jumper on a chair, it was the last you wore, autumn colour, I'll leave to endlessly repeat itself like pepper sprinkled on a bitter mood.