Annual months cry by, alas, in these
familiar, yester-years. In a flash of
a wipe, a sweep, a brush and a
weep, every monotonous November.


Here, I remember, the last closely
past and present in timely rafts of tears
and laughter. Though I know, I beseech,
the next will be here if I wish it hard enough.


Al’ never, only render, the unfathomable
words that stand by it. And hug it. And
kiss it. And give it a tinge of worth under
the watchful eye of the wintry night.


Aid me, please, in a boundless voyage
of wonder through winding trips of ache.
In four walls of acid, sour senses of taste
soothed by toxic smoke of illogical fate.


Don’t seek me too hard or fast in
a look. That will tear me in two. That
will crucify you too. During life and death,
as I and my thoughts
are detestable.