Poetry and Poetics
A train pulls into the station.
Passengers break like billiard balls,
glide to cars and buses.
Ezekiel the pushcart vendor
hawks his hot potatoes.
This is the month of the dead
and the undead. We wrap our fists around
good fortune, shove them deep
into our pockets.
The moon's reborn as a baby afloat
in the amniotic sky.
She reminds us of our next lives,
of our certain future perfection when
kindness will unfold us
and our eyes will shine like truth's
But for now it's October,
a month of witches, of prayers
to the old gods. We toss confetti
into the air and clap our hands three times.
Crows cackle as they rise.
© by Deborah Bogen
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