herself, i whisper with morning breath into
bedsheets with soft gray glow just coming in
over eyelids, crusty goop in the corners
smelling of sweet christmas dreams, the
dawn of november rising behind windows
with curtains drawn, stiff joints and turning
crisp pages, the story advances, septimus
considers killing himself. blue hydrangeas
in shade pockets against large houses.
filmy teeth, chapped lips in want for kisses.
sounds from two places: cars and birds
out there beyond curtain drawn windows
where november has just risen in cold
and gray and i want nothing to do with it.
only seed, only time, only time passing,
they tell me. while i seek nothing but
yellowed pages that have some other
answer, virginia woolf scolding me in
my dreams at night then comforts me
telling me what plays i will write and oh,
heaven sent some martyr of time, of
wristwatches, of clocks, of big ben.
old portland street and marylebone
station, these places haunting me,
lodging on york terrace and regent's
park all flooding in while yes! i shall
get the flowers myself, i say, i whisper
into my bedsheets in late morning
where the gray london sky outside
beckons me beyond curtain drawn
windows of a november i want nothing
to do with.