a curtain of wet plaster

hangs in the air


someone's nightmare of summer

presses down on us


while heavy leaves pull down their branches

to form an arch


over the passageways of wandering ghosts

drown in the vast crypt of the city


and moving without effort

through the stone channels


of what their interrupted lives have become...

dank as if dirt and rock and root and worm


titivate in the foul grave of air

around the fading spark of all awareness...



Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.