I have never felt as full
Of wake
Than in early November.
Not enough chill
To make you shake,
But plenty of explicit conversation
Inspired by the hint of the fall
To make you run the shower water
Scolding.
To make you smoke like hell
At the cusp of what to say.
Held up by the rigid vibrations,
And over zealous concoctions
Of the places with doors open,
Asking for the frigid.
Call everyone you know,
In hopes they’ll say no.
So you can have
Too much to say.
The Words Between Your Limbs
7 months ago | Permalink
