november

mrs. dalloway said she would buy the flowers

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.