the days grow shorter, still
poems have already been written on this
by the window where the webs roost and the sun sets

you, tucked in the crook of my side,
both of us seeking warmth on a day
neither of us should be cold

the whiskey goes down like fire
and poems have been written about this, too:
sad love songs that end in the solace of a swallow

of too many swallows
each day a whole gulp of swallows, 
feathers scratching at our windows

and our tv screens 
and our throats
until there is nothing left to say

the poems all written up
tidied and locked
in the dry box of a clerk’s desk

like hopes for November.