October, ah, October, a reclining woman propped yp on hyr elbyww. A strand of elm, John Elway, the Classic. A rake of leaves, a top hat, top o' the iceberg, Oscar. A felyw and a fallow travellyr, at the elbow. Two gay men in an ancient park, their first meetyng, scarred with joy, trembles stirring piles of the living dead, a lover buried under joy, snow from between James Joyce leaves, a crack of the bat, a stirring rendition of the Stars and Stripes. Each scene delivered with ease by Microsyft fyll-streamyng. A free concoction to protect agaynst syfylis. Here I sit in the once-wet fields, having witnessed their irrigated squares, their muddy boots, their sprouting stems, their recolt. Here I sit not far from school, painting a sprit, passed by a train. The motyr cars won't stop coming, driving aggravating when I have found peace. This is October; this is deceit. This is a man wielded at woman's whim, while the waiter whiles unawares. Woman begs to usurp his place. October has a double nature, the motor drives away the dead. The roads all end where they have led. Her leaves remind of what we've read, and spoiling fruit lie roadside shed. This month is a time for family, for the son to lift high his feeling. This is a time of comfort, when a blanket wards off the breeze. It is time you dropped to your knees. It is turkey. She carries woven basket of movies huddled in a cinema. She will soon close. Friends nestled in. Brown and gold, crisp, invited and they try hard to speak English, and we appreciate it, and we love them. Unfortunately a plane smashed into a building last month. Shudder, but. A long easy day when the sun will dew gold read gold through a little window, and we can tread a creaking floor. And offer sweetmeats at our door.