Evil Wind Chimes
crooked fingered me in my
ichabod crane slippers,
peering out the front porch.
watching a pair of hollow wind
chimes rattle.
the wintery touch of window panes
offer little but the frail figures of the
stars hanging like lanterns or
distant resevours of salt,
causing me to grow very silent.
miner of that somber place,
solice to that artic light
i wander.
followed by unknown blind albatrosses
under an aurora borealis.
and the canvas of my eyes seems
to reflect this solemn procession.
where once a moon hung in december
the last of the october and november
leaf like, pale like whispers across
the shadowy face.
tell me of what signs should be or
that may come, this evil wind chimes.
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