NOVEMBER’S ANNUAL SIGNS
The pied woodpecker hacks away at the telegraph pole
in rhythmic frenzy, the world was not created
once and for all, and even though we live because
we were born, we live just as much because as yet
we are not dead. It is a morning for clear mist
and genuine lies, and the world has not yet gone
to the highest bidder. On the fridge door I fix
the night’s dreams with a small magnet,
they will never return.
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