The Form of November

I met the abstract man composed of ideals
hidden in geometry. He had no voice,
and neither did I. He was strong between his speechlessness
and the form of a book. His despair is in having been
constructed. His hope is that nature will vanish
into industry. I met him in front of a factory.
He had made a choice.
     I was subordinate to his voice.
     I was a child of production.
The factory employed me in spring.
It was November, and I hadn't made a pitchfork
in months.
The subordinate man was labored with mood.
It was November, and we both began to speak.