IT HAD TO BE YOU
The beginning of November
reminds me of Kristallnacht
as the last of leaves drenched
in gold flash against the sky.
I can still smell the smoke of
burning books as you appear
dressed in an outfit you saved
for my funeral.
You say: There’s nothin to it,
as Jim Creed used to announce
after solving an insurmountable
problem.
Suddenly, you vanish., and I’m
left wondering if I just had
a hypnagogic hallucination
or did you just pay me a visit?
It had to be you. Wonderful you.
It had to be you.