Under the skin of my face webs
are spun from memory spiders
connecting Calvin and Hobbes
to Indian tabla class to yesterday’s howling
wind that blew open the shutters
in the sun room around nine thirty
and when I look out my eyeballs I see
other faces waltzing down the street
in Phillips, other faces covered in skin,
bobbing back and forth atop bodies,
bodies entombing calaveras y esqueletos
and some fiendish ghouls seek candy
and others don’t give two shits for
the addictions of this life are about to crest
and the spiders deal with vanishing legs
like the disappeared leaves of crooked
black branches in the neighbor’s fenced in yard.
I look out my eyeballs for porch lights
lit up, welcoming, for open hearts lit up,
welcoming: there aren’t too many anymore.
And the ones that are, are only on
from five to seven pm tonight.
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