Today at the cemetery,
worn stones, smudged engravings,
in harmony with the fall
of leaves, yellow and brown,
the grass surrenders the last
of its dun, all is muted
as the summer declines.
Demeter in despair, ashen,
the gray of weathered sails.
Darkness stretches to its full length,
Spirits shake off the dirt and speak
in a language only heard by those
who dare to press their ears to the veil.
*Latin, of the shades
anxiety no longer bound,
she runs out of words,
cannot finish conversations,
stares into spaces,
scattered, broken; fragments
flitter, her memory sheds:
a familiar name misplaced,
a point lost to a tangent.
She views herself,
My summer, slim in money, rich in time
serendipitous for stretching the space
between awake and asleep.
Full of fantasies, hallucinations,
I hear many languages,
periods of history collide,
plots weave together
and come undone.
My drowsiness saturated,
some bits within my grasp,
while others hidden in a crevice,
in the seam between reality
He stares at the stranger in the back room,
who wears the same pajamas every day,
talks to the mindless television,
describes busy-ness yet does nothing.
She takes her pills with sips of water,
gasps small breaths of air,
eats half a sandwich.
She speaks of demons
with sharpened claws,
he sees no devil-spirits,
only an untethered cast to her eyes.
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