November

November

 

The National said “I won’t fuck us over,
I’m Mr. November.”

But Mister, you’re blunt
Like a baseball bat,
Swinging for my face

Calculated rain, crippling the cold sky—
Stinging my eyes

There are certain certainties
But they always fade…
Leaving only a hint
Of the thick breath that’s hardened by the cold for a moment…

But then floats away

 

–Taylor DeBoer

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About loyolapoets

The Greyhound Collective Poetry Revival would like to consider “mission statement” in its simplest terms. Rather than reiterate the boundaries of our task, we simply express our aim: to become a mission – a party of individuals sent out into the world with a message meant to unveil a uniting principle of truth. We define this message as “poetry.” We promote poetry as a viable and vivid art form, alive and accessible. Freed from its ivory tower, our poetry will breathe life into an ailing form while fostering an artful relationship with the greater community. We assert ourselves under the following mantra: “your mouth is a sign of how sacred your life actually is.” As a collective, we write to be sanctified. View all posts by loyolapoets

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