Fall Back, Part 1

Fall Back, Part 1

The life of the dying

Is acrid and pungent;

Smoky.

Electric.

Spirits call in the rustlings of November trees.

(Cease. Cease…)

Silhouettes move against the darkness,

stark as a splinter: your glance, moving, catches against the woodgrain,

and poets sit on balconies in recognition, like Pamplona spectators.

Night revelers feel it as the need to live more.

To move,

To live now.

(Impending death, as resuscitation.)

Doors knock on themselves, windows rattle and chatter,

Invisible things thrive as if they were visible.  As if in daylight.

The parking lot is empty, but you’d never know it with your eyes closed.

The crickets sing out in defiance of the season,

improbable.

Pen cap litter, loiters discarded on concrete.

Let fly, crazy man, deny it no further:

It’s only one, when it should be two!

it’s harvest moon

it’s midnight noon

it’s spirits’ boon.

Windchimes tinkle and yard dogs croon.

Cold squash soup and infant’s tune.

And we will all be this way soon.

Yes, we will all be this way soon.