Night
by Nick Antosca

a ruined wind tries without strength to muscle us back the way we came,
but we refuse to linger or allow ourselves to be swept off
the sidewalk and into the street.

we disturb chalky dust silhouettes with our breath;
we damage the yellow ash silhouettes which cling to the brick
and disintegrate when approached, tumbling into the dark air
like hollow, ghastly pollen.

and we see faces in the vague, flowering dust,
the sweet-smelling bone-ash that maybe would taste like dried honey if
we could
catch it on our tongues.
faces of people we once complicated and inseminated,
and sometimes decimated
and then the faces spasm and disperse.

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