Locals always laugh at the outfits of outsiders.
Before this autumnal fall,
í, in summer, remember when the sun would not fully go down until the double penetration of digits of the timely hour:
The midnight sun.
Mooning and fully waxed, then too soonly waning;
like how the free market prefers prefit,
favoring beholden over that which is bespoke and
so tightly wound, we no longer remember which is the right side of the road
down which to drive.
What of those howling, “sincerity is my only credential?”?
Those who live where the gravity is strange?
Where it pulls at such acutely obtuse angles?
Like shadows of the diabolicals we call hills and valleys.
Leaning forward whilst reaching back in this pendulous periodicity of the multiform streams.