OK.
I'm going to finish with a few amulets.
"September Amulet."
A pause is also an amulet.
Silence.
The resting of tongue against what one shall not say.
Florid taste against tarnished speech.
My hand is an amulet.
Pale.
Restraining beds of fragile leaves from rot, tread.
From russet, press.
From arcane, meandering in sable light.
From propulsive ruffled sleep.
The body in early September does not
seek warmth, but rather the weight of woolen assurances.