November's Three Faces

November, November, the nth of November,
slow burning bales aren't all I remember;
the phosphorous lights exploding up high,
that mirrored the show set deep in my eyes,
deeper, still, than in my star-dark mind,
through vessels oxygenating sparks of flies,
beneath my heart and trembling diaphragm,
rising tsunamis on the cardiogram.

Patterns in the above shape irises of roses,
I dilate at the smiles of their flourescent poses,
and cascade like willow at their taunting shapes;
triangles where there should be day-bright drapes
and pyramids where there should be eyes,
instead in pinpricks I see him, and her, and I.

November, November, the nth of November,
the strangest month I may ever remember;
the fire burns to tempering embers,
one final folly that falsely renders
what whirls like Catherine in my gut,
for her, for after and in infinite glut.