Remember now the fraying of shadows,
the transparency of hours witnessed through a veil
stitched tightly with wandering forgottens.
Time lifts languidly past towered waves
that roar blackly against sorrow's sands,
like tears and scratches on the lost attic film,
or wounded hands clasped against the darkfall.
Now remain indoors, the storm has descended
this snow-wreath'd mountaintop,
and no headlights dare cut the gloom
as you steer your crumbled way across
your map of worn, indulgent nostalgia,
thrust into the arms of regret, of towns
with stray-dog borders and
wayward allegiances devouring
along fire-carved hillsides.
There's gravity in these harrowed fields,
these slow sleeping buildings and interstates,
and the glow through the collapsed birches
where the sun decays its abject half-life,
a land swept apart by candles in windows
and hex signs scrawled in chalk on barn doors,
the whisper of shorelines and skiffs unsailed,
and the songbird's most desolate call.