Uprooted, flying orange-spattered across

The young oak directly southwest of the gate.

Teeth, punched up and down and out,

Through the bark and over the fence.

Just like November, that brisk breeze

That delivers with a swift jab-strike to the gut

Gusts over that blood-bruised left cheek.

And then down to it again, and again.

It's a cycle, just like November.

And that sour-coated tear that frolics

Through the dirt and grass and into my gum.

And that mud-ridden, bruiser knuckle that looms

Over my skullbone and down that breeze.

It's all like that one time, where I

Couldn't stop it, and couldn't try to win.

The breeze comes and goes, and

It gets so cold.

It's a cycle, just like November.