November Third, Seattle

The sun won’t appear today
Rising elsewhere it kindles flowers
In foreign fields; even inspires
A crop of melanoma among
The fieldhands. But not here.

The grey view south is dotted
With electric pinpoints and a single
Tall cross dim in the gloaming.
Scots poets would go back to bed
To look out on the lack of dawn.

There will be rain. The clouds
Are pregnant again and dilated
For delivery, the unwanted beneficence
Of autumn: cold rain, blown
Umbrellas, and damp boots in the hall.

We swim this environment, fish
Skirting the edge of a dead zone
Oxygen depleted by a vicious
Algal bloom, red for a time, then dead;
Such a thing is glaring summer.

Now we pull on sweaters and noose
Our necks with scarves indoors.
The inward bulge of windows signal
Wind bringing rain at last, lashing
The dull view into utter obscurity.

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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