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.