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Poem: November

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November

November stomps on like a New Age poet

full of loss

and thrown down beauty.

Dresses darkly,

goes solemn and

bleak, then turns its back

on you.

Walks off the stage.

You're glad it did.

But when it doesn't put on so much,

when it's not acting at all,

but back stage,

unrehearsed,

all the dark stuff

tossed in the corner,

you see through the door

left ajar

the lovely slope of longing.

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