Hallows Eve

On the day of hallows eve
crows are as thick as leaves
hung in Indian summer trees.

They chatter and they squawk,
and the trees look as if a breeze
animates them with dissonance.

There is no rhyme or reason.

Jack’s stainless edge on pumpkin
flesh, seeds, and early eyes
puddle on the corner porch.

An amber glow invites the meek
and not, while alternate psyches
clinch and giggle with discord.

There is no guise or guile.

Fog and sweets reward
tricksters between tariffs and tar,
cold, not six feet under.

And at the transient hour,
clouds obscure the moon
in lucid eyes with common sense.

There is hallows eve.

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One Response to Hallows Eve

  1. Boo!

    How was the Vesuvio 60th anniversary celebration, Keith? I understand that the piece I wrote for the Kerouac show last year was read by someone (I hope it was Jim, nuthin’ against the other fine readers, of course). Please do send my warm regards to all at the bar, especially Mike and Janet.

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