Deep
in the November of your enduring
mind—there's a tree;
an imaginary one
whose craggy limbs—nearlybare
already—currently
sit—
picked swift-
and
perfectly clean—by hosts
of rapacious dark
scavenger birds—
each heedless
one
of which—somehow
now broods
still
and satisfied—
it appears—by the mere dimmest
ulcerating
intimations of next year.
