LXVl
(For Spanish translation click here)

November 2nd turns.

These chairs are a good place of refuge.

The bough of foreboding comes and goes,

rises and sweating, sways,

weary in this room.

November 2nd sadly turns.

Dead men, how deep your vanished teeth cut,

re-examining the blind exposed nerves,

jangling in the root of a tooth throbbing that needs to be pulled,

remindful of the tough fabric

that stout singing workers mend with unfinished hemp

of innumerable knots beating crossroads.

You, dead, with clear pure knees

from self surrender,

how you hack at another’s heart

with your white crowns, sparing

of tenderness. Yes. You, the decayed.

November 2nd sadly turns.

And the bough of foreboding

is bitten by a cart that simply

rolls in the street.