Happy Halloween!


Not I but the moon

Decrees each loss of blood.

You confided slyly, Besom-Breast!

I’ll crochet a horsehair head for you and

Lacework- stitch your flesh, my darling

You and old Scrimshaw Pate – He

Who Must Know Best.

Hot wax outlines a new broom’s sweep in

Sacred dust: chorus of shoe-buttons pops like

Potato-eyes. Oh, I shall dine on you

My darlings, rolling you in

Pig viands I dredge your souls in

Righteous lard. I am the sanctified enemy

Of the paper cut people:

My hymn shall rock

The laughing house.

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