Ahem. “The warm November.” The warm November. “An alarm, either your phone or mine.” Analarmist rails to empty urban streets, far removed. There’s coffee in the office. “And now we download?”Yes, now we wind down, sad springs gushing from crotches. The more popular diplomats ogle you, and Ido, too; there’s no escaping your body, such obvious transgression. “On a continual carpet of dry leaves!Are you nervous about ground?” I’m enough man, and happily animal. I am all hands under shirt for you.We know winter so far only by how old the light looks, streaming over the rise of escarpment. What thiswas before was an earthquake, a lake. “An apartment above an apartment.” This arc goes on and on,because the planet turns.Your hem sketches Arturo G. Fallico, warming my November. Apt and tightened spring.