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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