Rust

November: the month of rust.
At the bus stop, I find it under my nails
prise out the flakes and flick them
back to their brisk eddy.
Life smoulders;
I roll up in musty wool.
The bonfires light;
I pull tighter.

Through the closed curtain
fireworks bleed out.
In their dim swash
something surfaces:
the echo of a lidless eye
smelted from cracked glass.
A siren swims past;
I shift over
find a warmer hold.