PRATTLE OF CHIMES

(Otherwise known as Spit-Soaked Pavane for Broken Wolves)

 

 

Little furies tumble sulked from night’s blue throat as elder wolves whine on the far edge of town, while I putter through these dusty rooms in search of a shuttered window.     Dear rags of wind: harvest only half this melancholy & leave the rest for posterity. Every stone sunk at the bottom of the river; all the kites moss-strewn & marooned.    Listen well to this old earth chirruping, having plumbed these pumpernickel years…How gently limbs still click outside your door as clockhands devour autumn heart’s spindly sigils . . .