it's the first of november
you feel her moving in
to strip down your branches
to goosebump your tanned skin
she comes after hay rides
cider and pumpkins
running laps around your mouth
spit glistening down your chin
she tell you where she's going
she won't tell you where she's been
she phantoms in like dry rain
and get's you sloshed like gin
there's no line between
where she ends and you begin
taking over like a pirate
moving in like dark
dark wind
