John Mansell
Untitled
November this crux of hours
senescent in corners chilled limp.
A chatter of darkness
running strident
the silver amulet of your belief.
A lop-sided laugh
and white finery
tingles in the penumbra
of aphonic guardians
lining unflinching obedience
the pine coned streets.
A lonely walker,
or a solitary stride,
crouched in muffled delicacy
pleats into the devious anonymity of hours
as November
slides through my mouth
like a whispered name
with nowhere to go.
Page(s) 139
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