Rusty whispers hang like loose nails
from the bony limbs of the summer.
Autumn is the the cool sip of memory
that bleeds a subtle red chill on the lips.
It softens the burn of life on leaves,
yet scratches on graves.
It asks you to summon ghosts
that have sewn into your gut
a harsh stitching of your most secret guilts.
Your feet sprawl on the cool floor,
and the tingle of comfort is so fluid
but it pulls at the stitches,
while ghosts of you
sing whispers into blood