Nearing All Hallows by James Owens

Nearing All Hallows

There never has been anything new to say
in this great sentimental theater.

The trees rust and bleed,
which is a luxury.

Wind strokes them, profligate
and seducing,
and hooks leaves from their branches,
undressing the scaffolds
in pain and shivering pleasure,
as when a child tears away scabs.

Wind searches me, too, wanting
to blow open the small black door
where I have hidden
a few simple things.

Winter is ahead,
beautiful pencil sketches
on bright paper.

Spring will happen when the sun pulls
all flesh pale and wet
through a narrow
aperture.

It will hurt.

by James Owens

Editor’s Note: The last line of this poem punches through all the others like a bullet.

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