dust

i wake

the dust of love's village

in my throat

                    a cartography of

the unlived

                 the past is

a suitable shoelace when a secure belt is required

where have i been

drunk with the season i ignore

memory

chopped and stacked

in anticipation of the novemebering

                                                     (the illegible

script of rust,

the earth-seep of not-yet words,

stains...

            the tip of a finger

is a tenuous archive