November
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In the middle of the middle
the thing resists, will not be written.

So I make a circle, stamp about,
clumsy bootprints in the snow.
And I step outside––

Call this perspective.
Though it isn't.
Though I'm incapable,
inconsolable, inside         still.

But who can describe an interior:
yellow leaves beneath the snow––?

I have tried and tried.
I have called this "my project"
as though to distance––

I have said the bare branches
are fine with me,

                              just fine.

I have said
                                   the loss is exquisite––