by Seamus M. Murphy

In November darkness, the closed stars shine
like yes in a crowded room.  We assign
some type of feeling to events like these.
We want, & tremble like your mother's knees

after hours spent behind some foolish
contemplation.  We love the things we wish
for, & love the things that we've forgotten.
We line up as if we were the plot in

one of Chekhov's darker plays, & then we
ache with meaning.  How can we laugh?  To see
the decades of the rosary:  Christus
Rex.  We decry the answer.  Within us,

those sweet mysteries which sting.  I long to
save the breaking of your heart.  Words we grew
from blackest hope can be no anodyne.
In November darkness, the closed stars shine.

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