Leaves are done the bonfire
on Daniel Hatchet’s grave
:
died eighteen fifty-seven
he’s cremated every autumn
ashes are just memories
for the wind.
Black cat on the porch stepthe house next door’s for sale
a chance of coffins in the basementtrap door to the attic
and they’ll take any offer
they just can’t stand the smoke.
The price ghosts demand for hauntingthe cornfield’s skeleton corps
is waiting orders
to be buried where it stands.
Dogs dig rodents.
And sunset’s grey green marblecloses black the inside of a body bag
sound suffocates with slow muffled spasms
the musk of bogs and railway tracks
the chill air twig snap
of old bones shifting weight
and Hatchet’s tombstoneaging with soot.
