November
Knowing this, spastic
ancient films of Dallas,
November 1963, move
silently as we clasp hands
backwards in recognition
to quiet realization
of grassy knoll reality.
Paint drops of leaves
splatter sidewalks. There are
no things but in things—
the turtle shell of words,
cocoons of verbiage
chambering our adjectives,
activating final syncopations
of magic bullets
and mortality.
November rain
does not care—
autumn leaves,
like brain matter
shuffle past.
We stare into silver emptiness,
a cold, carnal awareness—
a glancing touch
of sky’s silken casket.
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