Still in the November we sink into,
Plushness of the bed, the thick duvet’s
Feathers from the duck
Or chicken hatched in the wrong coop;
Gray like mystery,
Haze like myth,
Mist like everything
Else. We find our way, damp.
Orange lanterns in twilight,
Floating globes of warmths we cannot feel
Like the gift of a sun made for Earth
Look, how I made you a star;
Forever, we accept,
And a day more,
Half-dried skeleton dust
Making a show in the dance hall.
Ellie Holt is a fourth-year Creative Writing and History major at Oberlin College. She is a November Scorpio (take that as you will).
