A Walk In November


With a mouthful of shadows,
I step into late November
a triumphal monarch, my dark
kingdom built upon sheets
of snow where I go for walks
sometimes. But mostly,
slush grimes and gums up my steps.
Vapor gives pep talks to the sullen air.
The truth of disease leaks through my nose.
A gust of traffic transfigures
the street stewing in spit.
The shit you read about in news
papers if you aren’t making
hats or boats, or gloating
over how much more
you can drink than your high
school friends. When it ends,
it ends as shrapnel,
telephone wires, a choir
of sirens beating you into the sea.

-r. miller


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