People clutch
Their hates and hoods here
On the waning days
Of what organizers call
A green market,
When all we get
In the way of green
Are the tops
Of the carrots they sell,
This concrete planet
I have landed on
In the midst or
Rising and falling
Temperatures,
Far from the river we love
The flow that connects
Me with your
Remote location.
There is more green
Where you are,
Spouting up,
Even at this late date,
A week or two before
The clocks go back,
Only not far enough
Back to reconnect,
This environment
In which I am trapped,
And you, fortunately
Have escaped,
A real green market
Even amongst
The changing leaves.
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