November

Philip Jenks

something there is that loves

    an arrow, or flattery like

          when the current

        or blaming mouths

       in mirrors to private

   discernment and alarms

     engorge every room's

     crease. you can't hear

           how you sound

     and the voice in your

   head plus the ones that

surge. nothing can muffle it,

    but everything shows up

                  instead.

              Notice first,

          groove in couch

            or tore up face.

            house no food

           and he show up

           on the third day,

    shut in and announcing.

    He shuffle some promise

        which is just enough

                to stave off

             an evening out

             taking cell pics

          of yourself and all

        those who meant so

     much, who you can no

             longer detect

           save for screen

  reflections and the outpost

       toilet scene because

    you agree with yourself

      that it must be a case

             of November.