Deep November

a poem

Deep November 

Fog droops 
over a narrow creek.

Limbs shook bare
claw their reflection

into brackish water
lapping a retainer wall

stained with blue graffiti.
What the heart can’t hold

the mind churns into static
the day alone decodes.

But the wind—
the first syllable of winter—

needles my face numb 
and my hands, numb, 

raise up an absence.