Houses with turrets rut and turn
quick below the touch. Let’s imagine
a street quieter than this one on

a Saturday, and more choked
with gothic. The ones with the taped-
down doors make me nervous.

I imagine the dead numb and filled
with stars; like getting so high
even relief is beneath you.

You probably like those midnight
allies so black with going nowhere
following becomes epic. That’s some

killer shit. Bit by bit they’re boarding
up Lorain, Ohio, and leaving it
to starve the ghosts out of its guts

Technorati Tags: lorain, ohio, ghosts, houses, saturday, postmodern poetry