this season does not belong suspended above a divide,
does not hang from any hand but my own

this month was not born to exist taxidermically, arranged
with frozen features in a box

i have gathered every cobweb which cluttered
my corners

and found that without them i have no corners

i have wadded them up and applied that
poultice to my wound

and found that i have no wound

i have lavender in my pillow
the whistle of a clamoring

night train
in the distance