Autumn is my backyard’s afternoon, wrought

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Autumn is my backyard's afternoon, wrought
escapes from fire scale the stones, o let down
your hair, that I might climb the golden stair
now gone black adamant as the smoke coils blue
above my ashtray where my ciggy burns
a yellowed sheet of cellophane; I'm a cold Mister,
extremely usual in my addictions and lustless
as a fireplug is. The clothes line's
sheet full of wind between buildings
is a sail with high ambitions trying
to lift this place to heaven as the sounds
of cat lust come through the windows
like chainsaws in heat.