Dismembered by November

May the winter enter 
its early maze, when
it's mistier than February,

oranger than August,
and more lost 
than July has ever been. 

Enter November,
the transitory month,
the transitional brunch,

where day's times 
exit the night's rhymes
and become a darker and darker

a starker and starker and starker
middle of the uncertain
end of the aluminum curtain,

laying a claim on the economy
and its discontents.
This lost time says thank you

in lower case
for each failure 
that led the year

to become another beer
drunk down until 
the after-October hiccup

brings back up
our rancid lunch.