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Submitted on
August 21, 2012
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The specter pivots
in the straight-jacket of an untempered wind.

My fingers trace the back of another hand
in half wakefullness;

the silence has grown a body
to lie beside me
in all of its moldy breath
as the house begins to breathe
from its fissures.

The leaves in the garden are a thousand pleading hands
running across the hem of some archangel's gown.

Street lights plunge from their posts
onto the asphalt.

I will remember tomorrow
as if it were a dream,
yet the ground will spill with it,

as if death entangled itself with life
in the confusion of a wind,

and I lie half submerged
between an eternity
and tonight.
. . .

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