Never mind the flying daggers, the billow of crows
tugging the glazed horizon. Songs of witches not
to be understood. An old candle that weaves
its flame in and out of September. And still I await the light.
Slapping my legs and footsoles, my linen dress reddens.
Oilpaper umbrellas shared by crumpled hearts and swollen eyes.
Lotus in full bloom. Dead souls that swallow dull stars
as black waves jumble my ears, and distill my tears.
Watching the parade of ghosts, in bald cries and weird music.
Thousands of paper lanterns ruffle the sea as signposts to home.
Out of the ground fissure come troops of beetles and ants.
And spiders. Wondrously emitting
steam of changing colors fertilized by poppies, the kiss of opium.
I walk over the weedy acres of the Giant's forehead,
and clear his hollow skull, the white tumuli of oyster shells.