Allhallowtide

On the horizon, thin and without reason

October scribbles across the sky in empty limbs

        a pinch from a preseason tyrant—the month                 coughing like a blade retracting

behind a black curtain, disease haunts the stage

shadows long, so certain, so long, everybody 

        burning summer’s sickly sonnets

                in fires barely hot enough to choke smoke

the children contemplate half-emerging skeletons

on the beach, they do not know their parents

or which few of them will pull through

        as the tide pulls back, October reveals 

                bony white reflections in the salty water

there is no votive, no hymn 

for their wordless struggle

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Friday Writings #198: October Writes