Leaves shift in the wind like planes of being,
the homeless push shopping carts through the market of life;
the costumes are what we wish we could wear all the time.
Evening winds skirl as evening winds always do, at least
since the Irish introduced the bagpipe to the Scots
(that’s just a joke.) We await the arrival of the dead—
the knowledge they carry, the deeds done, no lies, stories,
all that was avoided, forgotten, buried with them.
The moon hides behind convenient clouds. Witches fly lower —
ahh, the ladies. Their brooms exhale illuminated letters
that everyone reads as truth in need of explication.
The point of the pen keeps chasing the moment we all want
to understand, we keep reading, unwrap each new word
from cellophane, eager to feast upon our new treasure
once we’re safely back home — we can’t get enough
of that sweet thing; it’s there at our fingertips
some sort of tune you can’t recall, you heard
someone trill it once, but the wind just blew it away.

hallowe’en 2007

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