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By the time
its November I will
be all over it, be all over
you I will hang up the hang ups. You can
talk to the crows. I can take
some walks in the early morning
when every cobweb
is silvered with damp
when the fog socks it all in
and by the time
mists are excited by sunrise
stirring and then streaming
off the water
rising into chimneys
I'll be more than fine. I'll be
solidly November. Damp leaves, rotty smells,
cool air steamy sweat, shivering with wet. I'll be
running. I'll be breathing hard. My chest
will burn my heart
will pound I'll kick into the dirt. I'll be
out of the weeds and into the woods. I'll be
socks and warm soup
after a cold hard rain. A rain
all day. I'll be the last of the asters in an
old valley cemetery. Pincushion moss. Stone
epithets, both sets of dates: born, died.
I'll be the cadaver. I'll be
the solid grey sky. I'll be the
crunchy brown oak leaves
all over you
more than fine
by the calendar
inevitably

until the month after that. And after that. and
after that. and after that too.

You can talk to the crows.