those malevolent

mittens of botched blood —

reaching out from the pungent

dusk that paints its

locket of twilight.

neck-deep in childhood…

detached from a mazy

network of breath.

bridging the gap of far gone —

with the intermittent

dress-up of a ghost.

stealing into an abandoned

rusty tool shed, peeled

from the scalp of a

backyard.

filling it with baby jars

of soil — damp with

boyhood touches made dark.

now cursing with the tongues

of worms.

embalming the stillness

of a premature leaving —

an act too solitary to

be re-committed.

grass shaken from dust,

a windup box, a perimeter

of playtime.

now punished by that punctual

occurrence —

with a daily limitlessness.