Short

welcome
(to September).
I permit deceit commonly like a vacuole or open book: things enter and
exit with weak facilitation;
hose sneaks.

near and neighbourly
you propose to me boundaries,
which I supercede with anti-romantic lies
(your eyes are bleak as tin).
wouldn't you want to be the tin-man
and be an emphatic leader
or must you painstakingly plant me in tow
when my immaturity launches you as
grotesque:
I need my space.

welcome to my dare,
where I am clear to you
about my lecherous plans and
monolithic impertinence.

Noise with an autumn breeze
is obsolete,
Silence with a peep is how I am.

I'll brood
facing your back

wall.