☀ Today's Poem: "November Is Never" Ian U Lockaby

Seven people severed from subsistence climb a tree
                None of them can fit    Along thin edges of their own breath
they embroidered a fine lace—
                red: to give impression        that the blood
of dapper enemies lines their bellies and lungs The tree's
                an old man bearded with champagne and elections
statue erections what americana You extinguish yourself with
                every vote Who is a you— you who
gains on me me who belies some strong staggering
                bellies up to a feast at the family dollar                You who
there's no competing with    a sentence of simpering
politicos    on a mountain of smashed ESPN satellites
This sport        every sport        blended blood with landscape
It's ineluctable                   the non-possibilities of
Election         everything                is pointing to the trees
saying we can't all fit up there We'd like to—we
must—            It's fitting it's a ways up            maybe we—
after this season—    are several people already trying
They count 14 august buds            with ballot in hand
                torch each on a nipple or 2            touched buds
slung with sap                    it's warm    inside
another moth-bitten democratic velveteen sweater sling
canteen of sour sips                     Ruddering me        these
                ruddering ifs—            anaphoric            November is
never at all—