We’re at seasons' edge here. Make a door, a thrown-down wall
of this time. These are the nights when the dead return in rain,
showers twist strange against the wind; stippled faces
flit under streetlights. Ghost-skin tracks the window,
whispers dissolve in the gutter. It’s left to warmer mouths
to shape the tale. This is your first time at telling;
no words or water have passed your lips in days. Cup your hands,
open your mouth to the sky. Drink deep of it,
honey-slick and freighted with ash: the aftertaste is memory.
Your tongue moves shy over others' words, lending breath.
Welcome now. We have made a circle broad enough
to hold death in. Step inside. Tell us a story from the dark places.
For a tale, a candle, burning until you fall again.