dead end

so many haunted houses
all the dusty spotty shingles
living dreaming making storiesspotlit
corners fog fuck to the morning
dancein sheets tongue dashed petrichor
an angel spit into my hands

do not tell what does —
giant foglight on the side, ossifier:
marker piles dust and scrabbled shin-
as their giants in the nightandstopthestart,
the leaden ghosts who stare and scurl on
way up-up to darkened markets'
march of streetmeat, nona's smile, wide and awled by
infants bawling between easings
of a place beyond the pomp

drench in sepia-soak,
pedals blazed upon the tread
of threads of polish, pretty papers blasted in the wind is
every answer,
in the lane, and lane, and lane and lent
to falling features crossed and paused
that slipped the gate, that sleep so sweet in cradles
in the cage