November saves its words,

then explodes.

Its brilliance ferries in 

the cold.  It blurs the line 

between the holy
and the ghost,
 the parachute
and the river boat,
the omen and

the grace note.  

i.m. Nathan Carson, Nov 2, 1979 - Aug 11, 2018

It's strange, The way that people pick puppies. In a cardboard box Off to the side of the road On a whim Instantly form...