This year, in a month that promises to be nose-to-the-grindstone all-work-and-no-play, the morning alarm has been set. Every day a little jingle rings out at 7.30 in the morning, and an electronic message in a brilliant cheerful shade chirps: "Write a poem!". Prompts available here.
11.1.12 : "Get acquainted with the thirty days of November: ask them what they expect from you."
Each day, a vertebra formed
By a column of words, stacked:
Filled with the animating fluid of ink,
Linked by the sinews of definition,
Holding the body in alignment.
Here, the month passes
Through silent nights
And muted days
As I trace the vertebrae
Of your sleeping back.