Her beauty haunts me, hangs in the swamp air
like the smell of methane. Ghosts and ghouls move
in the knees of the cypress trees, above the Moon
progresses in tropes. She swings in a precession
of equinoxes, her nodes are moving across
the ecliptic in patterns. Skeleton's fingers hang
from the skinny trees and gray Spanish moss
obscures the branches. White plantation walls
show her silhouetted shadow, the bare skin
is met by a breeze from the oak. O how my love
is something to be feared! O how the occulted
Sun is deleterious! I hear the whispers
of owls in the distance and the muttering
of cicada swell their chorus in the leaves.
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