Clare Gower
1 min readApr 1, 2020

The end of summer.

A prescient chill in the midday air,

A tight forehead and a skull thick like iron wool.

Laugh lines that don’t fade with passing hilarity.

There are no nuances in single digit white wine, nor fructose nor glucose for sun-drunk bees.

Plastic wool sliding over cold shoulders — an autumnal refrain. You aren’t going to give my umbrella back, are you?

A sweater, an umbrella. Both died as martyrs to lust, buried in a makeshift graveyard.