from october

sometimes in november’s backwaters,

atlas hangs; a limp bleakness from

monkey-bars, presses youth

encased in ivory & a

lamb’s bleating sonata.

a palm grazed in contradictions.

wiccan into pangea encircle,

we, fluttering disciples to a skyline’s

whims. graceland isn’t enough for now,

as a whispering naiad’s last breaths

step into a kiln’s fading tar.

tyres crunch, a leave’s sorry parting gift.

milkweed inhaled once always leaves an imprint,

you say as you press half-moons into irises

and wish for a little bit of hope.

later, when a doublet’s sheen

is swept into midwinter:

I sink into a late hammock’s linen

and brush miscarried dirt

into my lungs. someone’s diwali lights are up

too early,

but it can never be too early.

so this is the world.

I’m not in it.

It is beautiful.