Late November

Turned off cold and the wind chime jitters.
Blackbird hysterics in the high flown air.
My hair has stopped growing, how very odd.
But it's about time, or a mystical illness.
Nothing really to write home about, the old 
address has gone off somewhere anyway. 
My cat has been roughly questioning mice,
seeking old knowledge of secrets and voids.
He lets them go afterward, visibly shaken.
My dreams at night are leaking some myth
of magical water and the futility of mops.
They must be trying to spread a true thing
about the paradox of nothing's disappearance.

Turned off cold and the years are now vagrants.
Too many suicides occurring since Shakespeare
invented self-awareness, made now too forever.
We need more carnivals and Tom Waits songs.
He touched that joke shy in dark burrowing --
it jumps out rabbit wild and laughs a moment.
Love is strange weighs fogs' frightful tons,
but winter comes soon antidote to gravity.
My heavy ghost will float over great ruins,
over graves, over ocean's horizon of beauty.
Turned off cold why not go outside now?
Walk in leaves of a tongue-tied sycamore.
Late November and I smile into bathos. 

~ TB, 2013