Sky of November

The first chill sways in me

My heavy, suspended sunset,

A canvas well marked, yet

More transparent than the wind.

I let them go together-

My last light, and the wind,

For they each live to string

The other’s hollow songs.

Like beads on thread, they live

On the round, cascading necklaces,

A bright, frigid web casting endlessly

At the stars of the light-rent sky.

They hold me, thank me

Before blowing through meager breasts

In hopes of mine- the lost souls

Of theirs and the dying noon.

I am left, pale, truly last in line,

Enshrouded in the wind that stays,

In the last, who bestowed on me

His memories of day.

Those that have me, the hollow hearts

Where my wind and my light

Struggle to thread-

They are more alone than I.

They have not even my sunset,

Only the wind, my wind,

Infused with stolen roses

Which make plain dreams wild.