November.

This poem is from my collection, Catching Dusk With Our Teeth, that will be available for pre-order next week at here.

November

for what it’s worth and whatever it means for modern

man-

It is harvest season.

the leaves have changed and fallen,

returning earth to earth to start again

And as November becomes bare

I’m trying to remain facing forward

to gather to give thanks in new boots and winter coats

to be grateful to keep it hidden

the rage that flows like white blood cells

rage that, in the right light, you can see it ripple

under the surface

escaping in breaths from pores and words spoken unable to be retrieved.

Thankful that for today,

it is silent;

thankful that I am learning to tame it.

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