A Cargo of Green Hearts
by convention I don’t give thanks in
November, month of dry bones
and shattered doors. the month
is a gravely long word and things
are meant to be burnt in it
for warmth or to shed weight.
one cannot lug everything through
winter and sometimes even
children must be left behind.
poems shall be burned for
the sake of fingertips— burned unread.
if there is a time for accepting
that the dead are actually gone
it shall be covered in broken
sticks with a beard of frost.
unlike Christ it will become
part of the earth and
remain so. it is a test.
let me be grateful in the spring
if I am still human.
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