Scything through the woods,
Carving my registration
On every trunk,
Until the fog smothers
Or the moon spits;

Lingering to capture
Some sort of evidence:
Proof of trespass,
Circumstantial pleas;

Exposing myself to the night,
Planning open graves
And stomping, staring corpses
Rattling their prophecies,
Instead of my dew-mud footprints;

Reloading for effect,
Stumbling in a race against composition,
Concealing pieces of the present
Behind a jagged past;

Hoping that a skeleton
Might make it worthwhile,
Wondering if other ghosts
Ever believe enough to return,
Or maybe discover the next bend
Somewhat unexpected;

While you're each sleeping,
Cooked and drunk,
Exhausted smiles left
On the kitchen table,
My Halloween rehearsals
Irrelevant.