Lost October

Her heart like mercury on Oklahoma's barren shores
Her midnight hair clouds the forgotten morning
Her clay-foot cake walk across broken asphalt

Uncle John and Aunt Jo knew her youth
They tended her spider webs and
fed her intimate serpents

She has no opera sunglasses
She has no late tea cups
She has no patchwork dreams

Table cloth draped to the floor
Shadow fortress for afternoon tea
She hears the bees whisper

She finds her form in volcanic ash
She finds her voice in whirling winds
She finds her hands in the furnace

Her father is a giant, he drives the train
He carries her from station to station,
a talisman in his pocket

She tastes like vinegar
She haunts the feline alleys
Her shadow slithers from the past

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Think there may be more to come. "Lost October" is a working title – a place holder, if you will.