not quite winter

November. The sky is missing:

a stolen monument, a breach. Still,

a few starlings litter the horizon: distant

flickerings, variegated shades of ash. Meanwhile,


a cross-hatched scrim or

a tangled mess of wind-

nodding tree limbs complicates

optimism. Knowing


the season, the attic chatters, a home

to scurrilous squirrels, mischief’s minions,

inclined to strident and obnoxious idioms.

Knowing as little or


as much, I mutter myself, pace the unvarnished

floorboards in circular logic, consider what

and what’s not meant to be.

Awake or asleep


I am a slave to my circadian rhythms,

just as the sun like a golden coin or

a nameless smear ascends or descends on time.

Now is the season, the hour


well into the festival of what is not eternal,

and always the theme of poetry

as involution and/or the winter blahs.

Now comes the too sudden


darkness and the skinless moon:

a lidless eye or maybe it’s just God’s

bare light bulb dangling from oblivion.

Yes, in such light


I’ll compose my book

of winter, let pages flutter

to the floor, accumulate one by one

like flakes of snow, senseless, cold,


full of essence.