Now Wed November

Another month, I love you:
those herringbone eyes,
those winks of lace
that stutter the sky beguile.

I was all in your palms then,
held fast and humid,
perched on a breath,
on your low-hilled lips.

But I was green then and letched,
inept to your thirty forms of love,
adept at drinking your thirty dews,
giving nothing. And you left.

And I, now wed November,
naked as a limb, gather the trees,
undanced, unpulsed, nonplussed
that I may not utter your summer name.

Image: Siora Photography on Unsplash

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