The space above me
is the color
of a bruised eyelid.

In it
are gray ghosts
floating purposefully in a pack,
hanging,
hovering,
haunting.

Wet wind rushes against my cheeks,
slapping away the lingering dampness,
and selfishly replacing it with its own.

Thin branches are having
their manic, screeching dance,
whipping themselves
and one another
violently
from one side
to the other
and back again;
over
and over
and over.

The red star is but a glimpse,
clinging, losing,
pushed
over the horizon.

The mouth
of the metallic monster
kisses me,
pushes inside,
and I
     pull
            the