7
november
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Slit the throat of the robin
The cicadas fall down
Past the throne of November
Past the sepia wood crown
More pleasant is the bite
Of January’s cold
Than the venom of late autumn
And it’s facetious red-gold
The crow preens on the rooftop
And a rusted old bed
The holster jammed with frost
Aims- renders me dead
A crystal ball conjures
Crunchy steps in pale snow
Cheap sleds skimming over
My worm-tomb below
It’s just a slumber in truth
And I tell the truth well
For a Winter is best spent
A vacation in Hell.
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