In The Hall of the Dead

I enter the banqueting hall of the dead.

Three yellow leaves drift over the threshold

and fall to the dark silt moss of the floor.

I seat myself,

a skeleton to my left and to my right,

and we wait,

here in the house

where all things are laid bare.

In the silence, I count their bones,

ivory in the dimming light.

I sit with them —

and I feel movement,

I hear the whisper of a movement

beneath the table.

I bow to look —

a thin green vine is climbing up

the leg of the table.

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