skulls © bd


out­side, death bobs among the plan­tains,
his faint foot­falls still­ing the chirps of bugs

he mim­ics bone and gris­tle to

on this pleas­ant Day of the Dead
when he dresses just like we do

there’s a gravel path on which he comes
crunch­ing, but

on the soft sand path of his sur­prises,
the only sound you hear is goodbye


2 thoughts on “halfway

  1. Susan

    OK, this poem gave me a chill-“the only sound you hear is good­bye”. What a beau­ti­ful, scary image. Where did you make the picture?


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