[Smoke from the horror brazier]
Smoke from the horror brazier weaves accusations
& accomplices over us. The howls reach down, raw
hum & lit-up like burning jukeboxes. The misfires
we’ve sent over the bow of the poltergeist’s sinking
ship come back to us with copper hatred. What’s a fury
without a little festival? What’s a festival without
assassins & marauders staking their claim on the folkwise
canyons? I have made a very expensive jowl for you. I have
liquored up the thrasher & formed neat lines to fill in the gaps
of your teeth. During the harvest, all the policemen wear
backpacks full of nametags & chemicals. We wear them
too. Water rages on the rocks, but nothing ever gets done.
The black flood recedes eventually, leaving you & me
& a courtroom full of witnesses to the abjurer hosteling
in our garden, our palace of ghouls.
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