28 November 2022

Postcard 199

Autumn has its own demon -- a shudder of locust skins
Bones out and well burnished, a woodsy soil hound
Haunting and haunted, rotting leather bound.

You know the smell -- oily death and oily hair
It enters as the rust caparisoned gentleman
Rattle branch top hat, dead man's cane

The blazing costume cannot sustain --
the demon's in the details -- death
decomposition, ancient pains

Hair and nails do not grow, but remain
Look! the demon's sad dance, no sweep no sway
A pile of dust, leaves blown away

How is the hoarmouth fed?
With empty cold inevitable. There is dry desire,
quaking lust for viscera, the demon's fall fires

viscera unspooled offal, stone
and guts, piled and steaming finally
in autumns dust

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