October

You make me want to use month
as a verb. Take you somewhere warm,
where oranges are evergreen. It’s obscene
to think of all the wholesome things we 
could do together: ride out bad weather on 
wooden porches, light garden torches
and read by firelight. Fill cups with
sunsets and drink them in, cocktails
chilled with wisps of widdershins winds. 
 
And, at night, fall asleep in October— 
cased in only cracking, creaking wood:
a loud house in a quiet country
snapping and popping among 
the low drone of bees. Tell each other
all the quiet lies:  that we didn’t waste 
time waiting to waste this time. That 
we can plan to month again and
 
again.  That if you drive fast enough, 
you can get anywhere in a day.

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