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.