Something Bright To Burn

The garden was full of something else

that wasn't toilet paper or granite:

something like crisped potatoes.

Or McIntosh apples.

Their eyes went all spooky

turning into massive windows,

and when I walked through them

I could only hear weak groaning;

Probably just a pumpkin.

Probably just a lost puppy.

I sat on that Probably for a

few hours, until the sun fell

(a pathetic orange crisp),

then fumbled around in the

dark looking for something.

I swear it was your hair

that I felt.