In the brittle, lonely snow of Halloween morning, I’m racing through the streets and stairs to find you. I always do.
By the end of the clawed up fields miles of rows of turned earth, wheat and tall grass, squash and angry, wary pumpkins, smooth, untouched (they’re watching you from every folded angle) there is something hidden beneath the leaves; in the flesh, littered with seeds and earth.
I want to find your calling card even dirty and torn. The soft wrist and unruly hair I remember; the top of your shoulder smells like sweet, limpid milk.