On November
Winter brings the white sky and the silver slip of the moon.
She drops it from her waist like a silk hoop…
The sky is black and the stars are holes
like an upturned colander.
My head seems to lurk in the same space every November, it creeps behind memories and fears…
I have to shake it out like wet clothes and show the sun to my head, I have to find the light inside…
My skin is pale as the moon these times and I find the warmth between the pages rather than the covers.
The pen is full of ink and my thoughts are brimming at the edge, ready to boil over the pot…
onto the stove, out of the pressure cooker and into the hypertext traversing an infinite highway for all eternity.