The hollow is bare except for
your broken cabin sitting
in the December moonlight.
Dark pines surround it like men
buttoned down and solemn
before an open grave.
The old boards have buckled
and your roof has finally given way
to time and rot.
I hunker on the verge of the woods,
cold, and watch your place
as I am wont to watch.
No night birds sing here.
They feel the poison
that draws me to this forlorn place.
Tonight I see you for a moment.
A moonlit gray face
staring out a broken window.
My heart is hard and cold as a
cemetery stone. You look and look
but never at me.
Would it bring you peace, Eva Nell,
to know that my mouth
tastes of blood?
That the black hair you loved
turned corpse-white,
and that I do not sleep?
