The dead
have risen again
gray
masonry dust streaking their
exposed
flanks like urban camouflage –
at the
opening strains of the recessional
they bow
their ragged heads
and file
through the blasted gate
out of the
shadows
out of the
stifling basement of memories
and into a
collective dream
of colors
and smoke and life and the living
and the
inky darkness that comes pouring
down from
the bloated face
of the
harvest moon.
