November steals light. Its groaning,
overstuffed table force-feeding

December’s mandatory twinkle. Sticky
sugar & shine. A buffer for the hangover

January brings, when we huddle & low, hay damp
in our shuttered mangers, pockets emptied

of savings & saviors, just as February’s crash
blows in a day late & short. Not even pretending

to believe in renewal, we shuffle into March,
googling chilblains, ides, suspicious moles, & despite

its reputation for cruelty & well-advertised cheating,
we take April into our arms. We’d fuck it

if we could. Invite anything pink into our beds
that comes fast & sings of mud & May

breaking winter whites into green & yellow
throats opening to warm June rain. Now

amnesiacs, light-drunk solstice revenants,
moon children & flower children & wide-eyed

July fireworks worshippers, we don’t hear
explosions as cannons, but waves. We’re oiled up,

salty August, buoyant, summer forever,
until September’s sere nudge, a stark V of geese

overhead, frogs exiting stage right,
taking green, leaving orange,

then red & brown & October’s grin
& wink & beauty & wind & hollow.