23 november

There’s only so much space between the table and the chair and where you’re going is anyone’s guess as the wind wonders where its next steps blow as it goes through the motions of metaphor for it has no feet and it’s a neat defeat to note that steps have leapt from shoes to choose that language we bandy about and it’s a candyapple doubt so sweet in the mouth and strung along the tongue we’re hung out to dry as the alabaster pies and the ebony fries all poster their tries for better tasting foods in the rudest of cafeterias the deliria of attempts we’re meant to do our best we’re the rest and also the meanest of gains the highest of aims when we open our arms the softest of charms – the bracelets the twists and the Alamo to remember the November when we’d all be done the strung-along beads with the sense in the weeds (we can wind it up but the pitch is coming, the ditch is dumbing down to catch us all) the stich that sews the stall to the horse that draws the course to a close as the wind whips faster asks the door shut last we’re the only ones inside and the nothing left to hide might as well be on this page while we rattle out the cage and see what else is home