November One

by Brett Rutherford

November One:
A killing frost has blanched the trees.
Those in the field who shrugged
at the sun, now shiver when it falls.
Squint at its bright imposture,
uncover in rain your gloved hand:
warmth will not come again.

November One:
The Druid New Year rolls in.
This one is marked
     The Year of Not Having.
Diapered and impotent,
the oligarch sees wealth
slide out from beneath
     his tiny fingers.
Frauds everywhere collapse
as pyramids fall and virtual cash
burns up in pixels of illusion.
Fear not: one buys a judge
for the price of a cheap cigar.

November One:
the holes down which
     the snakes descend
into their warm hell
are hungry mouths. Blood
is their only sustenance.
Each empty bird-nest
     is a crown of thorns
for an aching elm tree.

November One:
The dictionary churns
as fingers paw pages
for alternate words
to explain away
their border incursions.

November One:
Arms are the man.
Only the rifle speaks.
One bullet, one vote.
“Pogrom” rejoins
the world’s list
of “Things to Do.”