Cut-Out Ghosts On A Wall

Halloween weather lingered over the city 

like an incantation,

heavy gray brushstrokes cresting against

the dead fields swept beneath the overpasses,

with leaves and scraps of paper pressed against

rusted fences at the airport's wind-blown boundaries.

Over the sullen scrim of ice that was the river,

radio lights burned feverishly 

through spires of black pine woods.

They left afterimages burned into our vision

as we staggered past the edge of the yard towards the house.

Our bulkhead is wired shut, our boots wet from slush,

and there's a sense of anticipation that's balanced like some

dark photographic negative over the 

paint-less boards of the porch,

where we sat head in hands, 

shivering and remembering.

Bourgeoning Summer

All of the doors in the house closed at once, 

a dread chorus of gallows trapdoors banging shut

in the wake of chilled wind

that trailed through the house

like ice particles stirred to lively animation.

The sky wallowed in its sullen, amber pall,

little drifts of gray leaves dancing away up the road,

to where the bridge swayed drunkenly with 

each hollow, booming gust, 

recoiling snake-like from the 

bright purple frost of descending lightning.

This is the kind of rain

that washes seasons away whole, 

shrieking into the maw of raw yesterdays,

all bent backwards into oblivion.