as if they had appeared
out of
the miasma of an
all-obscuring fog,
their features only
sketchy in appearance
but filled with portents
and signs,
sometimes heavy
with meaning
and affect,
sometimes only
fleeting and hurrying
their way out my
bemused attention.
Some of them can still
make my heart race and my
lost fire flare up;
others are carrying
Rwanda machetes,
ready to make me howl
silently once again, and
still others are mere
elements of a crazy pastiche
composed of the detritus
of the mundane.
They are all suspects
in the Great Conspiracy,
and all of them
are to be mistrusted,
as I make room for new
walkers
ready to surprise me
on other rainy mornings.
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