truer than north, yet un

so we’ve gone whatcha might call 
a fur piece before we realize we’re 

following the wrong star. this one’s 
fallen, see, and we didn’t notice 

the shards or the backwards breeze
or the way the trees were trying all 

this time to warn us. i guess all i 
could see was the way that dotted 

golden line seemed to lead (away) 
the way, a dash-dash-dash you might 

say for somewhere not here. i fear 
now that we’ve gone too far, past 

milky way smudge and orion’s last 
unbelted kiss. guess i’ll just keep 

(shattered) going. 
and make a wish. 

::
In November, we poem. Today is day 3.

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