(I didn't go to London. It was half serious & half joke, as the equinox is simultaneously day & night, summer & fall. I did honestly think about going for maybe five minutes or so, then gave up to write poems.)
Cicadas cry
against
the dying of the light
While making a stew,
I fog glass cabinet doors.
Fall has arrived!
Thought best in autumn,
what will become of reading
in this computer age?
On the turntable: Neil Finn, "Try Whistling This"
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