In unclear windy September days when hanging roots 
of trees long waiting, beneath which workmen with mechanical dexterity brush off the
remnants of jubilant foliage, for they still sway to singing breeze or sing to shimmering sun, 
unlike those who twist and wait, on those many aching daybreaks to 
slow hymns, bringing nothing but another profuse degeneration
where unnecessities clog up mindspace and bodybristles 
rusting them to further dried up
dust, uninspired sapless wilting
insignificance.

What care he takes to rake the leaves which swim and clog thickets of 
chilling nausea, of bilious existence.