here comes November with its milky moons and raspberry sunsets
(I can still taste it on my lips)
with the sky flowing from an overturned inkwell and the stars
crumbles of a broken...not...more likely, just squashed heart.
it's not as if a heart was something to break, is it?
it's not made of glass or ice or whatever.even if it is fragile.
what are these melodies drifting in the midair:
lingering summer hymns or reminders of a forthcoming winter?
I wish I could catch one, as a snowflake,
and feel it melting on my wrist,
turning into a part of water I haven't cried out.
meanwhile this autumn is gathering leaf litter
and brewing a dark-dark stout.
you'd better not drink it - it is too bitter.
you'd better just pour it away.
because there are
no more unsung songs
no more words to say.
7 nov'16