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To Jamie Cavanagh's previous piece

visitors late in autumn

the spring-fed green
can but briefly hold
against the wrecking-ball sun.
the slow ticking clock
wound up ticking too quickly.
the price of dope
is not paid from a wallet.
and the field lies barren in autumn.

the constant clouds refuse to spill.
the shadows marking light
are blurred and gaining.
lies tumble from the lips of shills,
from the lips of failed actors
sliver haired and rented.
demon sirens scream like a whistle
on the chests of the dead coming home.
shortening gray clock-tick tomorrows
dwindle in expectation.
an accrescence of memories
trundles across the roadway
like a train full of ghosts
coming home for a visit.

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