"baby don't look down, death is on the ground...."
-- mr. sister

sawdust and ribbons,
skies lap winnowed gaps along these
dropped fruits, clacking rasps of
ill-burrowed winds.

kicking against the leaves,
she knows this is the last poem of
november. creaking boards of floors,
cracked and frosted glass,
holes breathing night along rivets
worn.

cats keep begging in rhythms
still drunk with summer,
bare limbs croon the songs of
shadows jangled.

sawdust and ribbons, she feeds the
flames and stacks the bottled fruits.

stertorous winds ink grooves against the
rising nights. frosts
fester,
somewhere here,
(she points)
and lights more matches as the evening
dims.