A Poem For Halloween
The moon dangles from its severe, black cord
and packets of dew thicken the grass tips.
Everything is blue--the meadow ripe with leaves
blown from the periphery. Instinct
threads the skin of the boy as he strips, the tufts of fur
splintering through his cotton T-shirt and the deer
are startled into their sinewy gait. Hollow sounds.
A cry from the chest where the hunger lives.
The boy will enter the new world through his eye
tonight, afraid of his flushed skin. The blood
rising like the cherry-red tip of a cigarette
pulled towards the mouth with each deep breath.
But he is even more afraid of the dark space of memory--
a flash of speed, wind on his face from some dream,
and the cooled, coppery taste pressed against
his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
The wild is fierce with memory. And his ears
tilt to the soft pad of his paws against the village cobbles
and the darkened cottages whose roofs blossom
with potential accident. To be one with accident
as to be one with god. To be god is to love
the sudden solitude of night
when the sleeves of the once-body yields
to the muzzle's soft kiss and the wet nap of a licked
burr, nestled into a muddy coat. Oh, meadow, meadow.
How the moon's beautiful swell nails everything into place:
the tooth's glory plunged deep into the evening's bruise.
The throat, heavy with a hound's velvet "no."