beneath wire-frame oaks
a north wind blows
down the street.
stripped bare
of their leaves
they groan and creak
unable to bend
at the knee,
while a string
of tomorrows
shackle my feet
and linger behind
which anchors
the past like
pearls before swine
or a snake
in tall grass, ready
to strike
without warning.
so when the ghost
of lost loves
calls you by name
but you’re no longer
the same
and refuse to look
back since
the tolling bell’s chime
cannot be unstruck
and you’re shit
out of luck
or forsaken,
remember these words
as a sign…
some roads
are better left closed
than for taking.
