It's a Friday Night

December 14, 2012
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at the full moon cemetery
twisted brittle trees
dig pointed fingers
into the sky,
brazen and purple
like the thin skin
of a bruise,

The highway
grinds sideways against
the thick, bent energy
of cracked memories
lounging on edges of
pock-marked graves
Icy, still air
the thought of bones
the Ada Witch

might weigh up to
two ounces
and linger for years
with rotten leaves
shrill cries of summer
and spilled wine
we crave for
inside this silent
dead ocean
of the Friday night
after Halloween

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