November Night

It was beautiful, really,
no need to qualify it,
to say beautiful for November.

Out of the flat grey sky
cut a slash of orange,
gaze of a monocular god

Lighting the low hills
across the lake, a moment
when the heaviest heart

Might soar a little or at least
flap like a black bird
clearing a jutted branch

In a dense wood.
It made me feel light,
then hard and small, lumpish,

To realize how, apropos
of nothing, I was always chugging
down love like warm flat beer

And careening to the loo
to piss it all away, unable
to focus on the crude verse

and drawings on the wall.
Full night now, spilled-beer-
on-table ring around the moon.

About Ray Sharp

Poet, athlete, retired public health planner
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3 Responses to November Night

  1. I like this one, I like it very much. It wanders… Not all who wander are lost.

  2. redgladiola says:

    Love how this poem unexpectedly changed feeling and became so raw.

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