November, Ex-

It is no different being dead
A cold sunlit room before dawn
May fruits in a pyramid on the table
And November outside
These things happen here
Sometimes there are heavy winds, the cry of a lost cat
Wind chimes at the front of the houses
Of course, there are no houses
But we are here, aren’t we?
The dead cat approaches the front door of the house
No longer there, it is still warm
Someone waits to welcome it inside
Its long arms are all we have

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