The Dolesome November Wind
11/20 2021
Is she walking with her hands in her pockets and how,
As the dolesome November wind blows
Across her face as it does mine, and I know
In the rhythm of the smoke, the moon and clothes
Only a matter of distance, and not a matter of stars
A matter of a saxophone playing the moon
Echoing the sentiment of the cacophony of bars
The lost wander the same places in the same asymmetric tune.
To say that I lost my voice would be understating it,
To say that you were lost would be underselling it,
I am simply breathing in the debt of what we owe,
You are simply wandering, watching the wind blow.
One line in perfect tangency with my own,
One in line with the collection of an ivory bone.