it must be November 
                        it's cold for  a day then the rushing color comes back

   returning like a sigh along the wood of our thought

                          the lovers and the misplaced places
                                             buttons beneath leaves and lips

         someone saying your name
                                                 someone sighing


   but the dry cold days between the lover's arms 
  or not and the clay
   and the hot
            and your day 'laying  back'

   or not that, and a few and far between these oceans
    of world, and the destiny of space   ~ .