Old ghosts teem amid the fireflies and dim time

stumbles through the variegated dusk, with

glowing plums, how they burden in the dark

those limbs in twisted slumber, threading the

canopy of shadows that embrace the sharp

features of failing day, the oblivious regions of

the end of games that every fate has known

since birth, since breath drew the tongue-

a meaningful word

from meaningless

air.