Ghosts spill into the street

The house, too, was like this,

over painted, over lovely–

the world is like this.

– H. D. The Gift



It was a perfect autumn evening when I walked home from A’s house on Halloween.  Near full moon, deep blue sky, orange street lights pouring over the leaf covered sidewalk.  My shoes barely made a sound, my skirt puffed out beneath my coat.  On almost every corner laughter spilled out of windows, glasses clinked and plates clattered.

It’s a few days later now, and the walk is still inside me somewhere.  Caught in my ribcage maybe, or tucked beneath my shin bone.

C picked an H. D. book for book club, and her simple lines have me excavating text again.  There is something satisfying about digging deeper and deeper.  About unearthing.

Please Leave Blank.

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