November
I can’t understand how an entire state can vote the color of blood while another state floods from an ocean, any ocean, while up and down the west coast sprinklers are never built in forests and how everything isn’t screaming or growling or trying to medicine the sky, or what it means to still the birdsong of my hummingbird’s heart or watch hope drain from the Mississippi, but who cares when everything lost or gone or both floats like thought bubbles above our heads and through the air, all air, the thought bubbles which can’t keep the weeks in place, the months that follow the promise of a year or two in wrinkles.