January 2011

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November is the month
of bruised eyes and
winds that rise from
the shivering earth to
lift across the corn stubble
and old dead beach grass
to the lake where
light in quivering shafts
bears great freighters away
on the sad and longing
canvas of the continent,
and there is a woman
there is always a woman
high on a widow’s walk
pinned to the pastel sky
at the going going goneness
of a season and of a ship
that blinks to blackness
in the closing mouth of day.

© 2010