Monday, November 7, 2022


By November, 
any hesitation has been drowned
in early shade; 

anywhere you look, all life 
has begun 
to uncomplicate.

All feel 
the centripetal pull—

as the center of a 
famished black hole—

from clock hands 
that whir toward 
their end time, invisible. 

Some can even hear it: 
that imperative 
of the thinning air 

daring them
to carry their coherence 
for much longer. 

While the deaf 
are unceremoniously stretched 
and bent, squeezed and rent 

of even their unutterable 
of halcyon.