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 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
It will hurt.
by James Owens
Editor’s Note: The last line of this poem punches through all the others like a bullet.