Outside, winds lift skirts and debris. Men with hard livers wipe their faces as they exit dim rooms of pungent air. Branches lash at their supporting trunks, agitated by ghosts and figments and dreams.
Inside, isobars coast in smooth tandem over the pull of a vibrant map. Their brilliant shift and sweep chart dark disturbance, predicting the hereafter. Specters in this box of lights and the shade in my thoughts leer.
The rock-stars of my youth have been sucked into the maw of their muses. Left to rattle my windows, the wraiths of their hot deaths howl like wolves in the wind. The world through the window tilts with the gusts, yet it feels like I'm the one leaning; being bent akimbo by haunts.
Dogs bark in my dreams.
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