The pressure of November sits on my head
like brick. Like grey breezeblocks
compressed days squeezed at either end
like man-used toothpaste tubes
The stain-glassed light of summer seems
imaginary, illusory, child-like pure
The glee and euphoria of syrup-light buried
in dark-days, damp-days.
A month to the hump. A month til the
shortest, squashed day.
Will I get there? to the release of expanding days?
Of course I will. Speeding days mean each
compressed November is shorter. before long
winter will pass with no more pain than a
plucked hair. And I will look wth affection
at the past. At the damp days, dark days
when time didn't speed. I know this but still -now
...I wait for the expanding of the light.
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