i think the sun broke

because your april is my november

and the lazy willows are caressing your shoulders and

wrapping up your clavicles in a smothering

evergreen embrace, while my

face is being chipped by the twelve-to-midnight sting

of water mist, shards of diamond glass

scintillating under a moon on the rocks (shaken, not stirred)

but maybe a red giant somewhere else has it right

where my april is your november

and i've lost myself in decade old texts

scrawled with the graphite markings of women and men who

still didn't know what facebook was, but connected

with such a network of fleeting smiles and

timely strokes of their hair that their walls were their faces,

but you've spent your time on the

soft linens of a cornered comfort, acoustic and

tom waits growling vocals echoing in a hall

dampened by the ever-growing thumps of

an elephant heart and sparks of a tesla mind

and maybe the elephant, or the chilled pacific has it right,

or maybe the coy smiles, or the heaving leaves do

but this time, these calendars

are no longer gregorian or french revolutionary or lunar

they've just fallen from the minds

and carried themselves into the warm folds of the sun