i dont think i know that band

it may be a close call, but tonight feels like rubber gloves, its tight, its fitting.
it has become sectional, and i am relieved for the layers in my life. each room fits another sense, i can bring myself to the ends of everything, or the beginning of mist, a time undone. in this season, i am plump and picked. my hasty time of indian summer, i cradle these soft notions in the crook of my arm, in the palm of my hand. I am sprung unwound in this autumnal drift. it finds me in this mood, a drifting light, it laughs at me, it sings at me. these ideas of foreshadow, its a simple twist, that in the end, we knew it all along. it was realized then, that every dance was more of a cling, and in the end the ancients sung like buzzing armies; it was shown to the wind that the ice would crack under pressure.

in the winter my hands crack, i grow ancient, my spindle fingers trace the outlines of young dandelions. in the winter, i will draw my face up in color, take the white from the air and tickle the tips of snow forts and glens. pines with frosted needles, i crave the hollow life that lives dormant at my feet.