November

The following poem isn't really about the month of its title, though that's when the dream (or, more accurately, nightmare) it's based on took place. It's one of those poems that's never quite "finished"--it's been rewritten numerous times over the years, including (looks at wristwatch) about five minutes ago. This wasn't the first time I'd dreamed about the walking dead; it wasn't the last. This wasn't the first time I'd died in my dreams, either; it wasn't the last. (I've read that the capacity to die in one's dreams is a sign of genius. If that's the case, I'd much rather be a moron, thanks.) Enjoy.

Long to be a
manchild with a
head on his

shoulders, with a
serious mind for
serious things

deepened to frenzy
by nights ridden
along creeping

stream water and
gnarled boughs
backlit by

quarter-moonlight
briefly. The air
is frequent

and moved. Leaves
hooved into the
moist without


noting the scent
of gore in the
mud, of dead

fingers dancing,
holding near on
such formal flesh.