How did you know November was too late,
that I’d miss most of the leaves? What made you late
as I waited on the curb, wishing I’d worn gloves?
Your campaign was already over, but you withdrew late,
bent on convincing me. You knew what truths
delight; what lies; what tactics to pursue, late
in the game, when you have lost, when nothing remains
but metaphor, when nothing’s left to undo. Late
answers appear to me: sporadic and fugitive
as dragonflies, whose grainy haze, greenish blue, late
in the day, hides hindwing and forewing.
The point of winning is hardest to articulate.