NOVEMBER, THE REALIST by James McKee • Cleaver Magazine
Scrapped leaves, the orange the gold the crimson, scratch along, clump, stop. Crumble. Rot., Blow off where it all blows. Aaannd are gone., Goes, too, the wide green tight green ends in,, frou-frou for debleaking (Ablur? Ablur), stark stonescapes that never otherhow were.,