November First

All Saints’ Day
Dia De Los Muertos
Halloween hangover

Call it what you will, the veil is hanging-on by barely a thread.

The sun’s wide idiot smile
On my trees, assembled in their saffron robes,
Fools no one.
Does he think we don’t notice the first wisps of smouldering,
or recognize a funeral pyre?

Is there anyone better acquainted with what’s coming
than a martyr?

I cry.
And you bleed.
It’s not exactly a script for a Hollywood romance. Is it?

But it’s what we have.
And it’s one notch better than bleeding, or crying, alone.

One degree above zero

“The sky’s the limit!”, cheers the idiot sun.

We roll our eyes in lockstep.
Ginger and Fred.
Pained expressions so alike they must have been choreographed.

I look at you, and you look at me.
Neither of us now remember who composed the steps.

If only you could buy an ad-blocker for real life.

We’ll just have to ignore the deceitful tease of indian summer on our own,
and walk south.

If we cannot fly.