Once, when no star shined
on slick, black, asphalt roads,
the murky wetness of November's
watered nights a freedom-feeling
and strangeness-sense inspired.
The moisture lubricated
sluggish mental cogs that
all the dirty, dry, autumnal
season rusted tight and atrophied.
Wildness no man can tell I knew then.
All November's labored length
my nightly notions filled:
my bacchic spirit soared, and flew,
traveled far, saw much...
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