Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Curse of Desdemona

Autumn and spice hangs on the air There’s a chill at morning through a foggy dawn Waiting out the morning in woad mansions Streams of sun infuse the waters of the fountain And we are quiet to hear though there is little to say My cousin Rick tells ghost stories of the house he says is haunted Golden ghost of a bear or man who once built the house Soon September and I'm taking stock Measuring the last winter against the dreams I seldom keep Wondering about the baby she held the last time we will speak Broken smiles shards of china Toward the cold end of sleep In the compound of my debts the scarecrow begins to speak

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