perhaps seasons are sins, but only where there are four of them, northern then, for the run up to the ball, the merriment in the sun, to lose all your plumes, to dive depth into the blackish doom – of cold, to hang on as the night goes long, pumpkins rot, trees are scorned, and for the transgression of just possession the sun’s light strays, a matter of degrees on the mother’s face, a number of degrees below the pace, of a slowing heart, hibernation into that night, to turn over a new year, to be taken from the light, a candle in cage to survive the trap, to burn away until that comes the next season, the light of day – back again to begin the sin again, and so comes the April’in rains…

I was thinking about how the seasons are like the cleansing of the earth of sin, which seems clever at first, but then I am slanted both figuratively and literally by my hemisphere bias… but, what is a jersey boy supposed to do? I can’t be you or someone else, I have to put forth my experience .. so…