My Worse Half

A southern wind blows
in through the window
and rasps.

A circle of fallen leaves
gathers at my front steps
and asks:

Why don’t I cry out for
help?

In through the window
a southern wind blows
and dies.

Gathers at my front steps
a circle of fallen leaves
and lies.

Could they possibly be
you?

They fade away,
Like immoral thoughts of a self-important meddler,
Awaiting eternally for an apotheosis never sung.

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