November

I like the cold, overcast days of autumn.
Mist freckling the windshield as leaves
shiver and take Golden Gate leaps into
their savior’s arms, being led across
golden shores and into windswept streets
and damp alleys, garbage bags, and
overzealous burn piles next to mailboxes.

Closets cough up college sweatshirts and
blue jeans for girls by the fire, hair as graceful
as American flags fanned by the cold, dead
breath of Rome, naked and auburn in last sunlight.

The birds that stay turn dusk to dawn
with their songs, their meanings so vast
even in death we’ll never fully understand.