Five Octobers and four Aprils
the slow collide, collapse of a
knock-knee-elbow dance.
The silence silver-tipped
with the sibilance
of the gas turning on.
Drinking cold coffee and eating stale buns
The fridge unstocked
the drapes unwashed—
I think it’s time we both moved on.
But we cling and we cling and we
cling and promise ourselves
Another October, and we are done.
And April comes to dance on our graves
She’s an October who’s thrown her rags away
To cavort naked in the filmy sunshine
spinning ‘bout in her mist-filled repertoire—
Things aren’t so bad now, are they? Things aren’t so bad.
Six Octobers and we are done, I swear we are done.
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