I’m the one to hollow the pumpkin and carve a face. The doorbell rings again. You adore the children tonight in their costumes. A
I can think of worse things. It’s windy in your head, she says, but I like the soughing in my mind. Thoughts blow through
Night sneaks in like a lover’s whisper: breathless, untrue, close. You wait at an unlatched window, conjure doors to close. I can live with
Only one year I planted pumpkins— carriage or shell for keeping very well— dragged them to the front yard, left them to grow old