Frank & Earthy

Ghost Trees on the Lower East Side

Nature knocks on the door. No answer. Tarantulas bark outside the triangle. No reply. Four. Slip inslide. In slide-away from the window. Away from activity. Artificial. Four. Round. Peak. Neither up, down, pouting ships offer no explanations, ask no symptoms-symptoms secluded in sinister bathhouse, bats louse it up for witch doctor phantoms, ceaseless encroachment, eternal isolation, mysterio patrons stand inside icicles-taut blessed strangers atop distant northern frontiers-tace is Latin for candle-candles burn longer that keep breast's width from nature-candles burn faster when pushed under chaotic oceans-lips swallow canyons without remorse-victims peer out from innocent shores-landmines offer no shelter from Exotic Lord Thieves-offer sins and smile-wait for nada-give silence. Devour light whole-a bit of hollow; a touch of entropy fades away.