Running out of sunlight Dos

A graceless intemperance pardoned into
a close,
from dreams, the wasteful and wallets
Wake.

November rears it’s November-y head. Last
clawed, last
leg,
we ache,

“Give me back my October, and extend like wings
sprawled
on bedroom floors,
the sweet nights,
along tunnels
I lay the middle of this
triad”

I swear to do you right, you
wanderer,
albatross, hummer.
I need more
sand.
I need more
sand.