poem: swan song for november

the whole bedrock for our silly little post-
renaissance project is underground; the women with long
silver hair construction vest gray/blue tennis
shoes: I can imagine her as anything
else. in linen and singing. please rip me open and count
my ribcage, there is an maladjusted chromosome there is
a space. yesternight i was listening to the cranberries and i
remembered the witching times / when the dark
at the window was the real lure of death
and not just metaphor. crumbled in the space between
my bed and the dresser. two hours north from the
cusp of southern california there is a real fall, i am
more an imaginary. married in that park with the
leaves in cascade, silk puffed sleeves and
calm changing air. when i go home i will eat i will find
the holidays sticky in my cup. maybe we should go —
open field, you split me open you take
me – there is no wedding vendor there is no
price.