philocaly
i know november by the way wet leaves fill my ribs and how a sinking sun takes more than it gives and when that dark funnel of crows goes churning i dream i’m their last center spark of bright before sweep of day flees. eyes set shallower in my head than before and while there’s no shame admitting my door slowly shuts i prefer to think i’m transitioning. the cynic points out the false show at my feet and sure all has collapsed but where else has the end seemed so sublime. it’s like my insides have turned out and i’m kicking bones instead of stones in search of something irrefutable in whatever i might leave behind. finally found and with a new wind gone, gone. only venus is sage enough to figure i don’t belong here. yet here i return.
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Joseph A. Pinto 