October crushes down, squeezing the juice of summer

and all the faces are new fresh new

Mouths fallen heaps of gloss and lips 

Sit. Sleep. 

October crushes, and leaves curl on asphalt like fingers. 

The leaves hurt, and the new new fresh new faces.

The air stings pleasantly, like mint, like new. 

Things are not neat. They never were, but left to their own devices, 

they begin to draw attention to their disorder. 

There is a great amount to do, and more ways to do them, but things are not neat. 

The new stings. The October air crushes thickly,

whistling down on the undone and unmade. 

The new new new mixes roughly with the old unfinished. 

The NewOldNew is raw, weepy. It pulses sloppily, flushed in the cold. 

The NewOldNew is hard to carry. You must try to hand it to the strangers. 

They will be confused. More often than not, they will refuse. 

“Why would I take something like that? It is 

small, and fragile, and does not know where it would like to be.”

It will pulse wetly in your hand. You must carry it. 

Sometimes it will require sleepy whispers of encouragement. 

Provide these, and try to be as genuine as you can. 

Hope that it will unravel itself. It may not. It may grow. 

Descend into autumn. Take no prisoners. 

Sleep, and the leaves will be new.