low sun
behind the churchyard
piles of earth

early dusk–
an obituary taped
in a used book

full moon
the sidewalk curves
around tree roots

its whole body
cawing–
the crow

a dried leaf
slips from her journal
new year's eve

borrowed novel–
a bookmark left
near the end

séance–
a white moth flutters
above our clasped hands

All Souls' Eve
limbs of the sycamore
through the fog

fading light . . .
the faint smell of camphor
on old love letters

twenty below
the Milky Way
lined up with the river