Into the Narrow Days

It’s September now and the rain,
After the heat of the summer, has got
The dead rattling above their graves.

The rain and its weekend gyrations
To hurricane winds left the dead swaying
Under the white of a wall-eyed moon.

We are ceilihded with skeletons now,
Straight-faced and straight-backed we stepdance
Into the narrow days of autumn.

These fingers we feel arthritic
In their ragged gloves of skin are ours
Stiffening to the slow embrace of death.

Rain has washed the dust away from yellow.
The fiddle moans, the bagpipes skirl for corn.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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