It is an art form
continuing to live with your whole heart.
It can be expensive...costs mount
skeletons dangle in the closet
in clothing you have never seen before.
From under the creaking floorboards,
past pyramids of burning black-pitched hay,
legacies drag and slither
November comes too soon,
the second chance for souls, all of them,
in the mad dash to flee this place,
following like ants on the trail of the saints
who left a moment before,
a naked moment,
brief, sleepy, and no more than that.
Haunting hearth tales
words and whispers in licorice-spiked fogs of breath
told to little girls
who grasp the green innards of the stripped twig
who watch the moon,
passing up opportunities for more in favor of better
and wait for the eye to close,
when they shall fly,