Cold October

cold October
the turn of the earth
its gentle bend
its kaleidoscope-spin obscurity
its hoary-edge shadows
whisper a name I’ve not heard
since a prior existence
I might walk– until I find it
caress its hip-curve edge
stepping over the familiar bones
of the lonesome wicked
I might dare a place
where I’ve not yet existed
a place long forgotten
I might disappear
into an electric-horizon hue
a sparkling glimmer, without name
its history, its future
its seethe, and hunger

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