Craw of Day

windy black october night
she wanted to carve out her own place but
for demons that couldn't spell

all this vivid time and space
suspended in a dark obscene slime which
behaved as a godmother

each pumpkin plucked from amongst
the spew of vine couldn't not be rotten,
fruit of juggling cats or eggs

which is why in these small hours
she and I and a whiskey sour spit rinds,
stir with impunious bats

we dine at one right from the
cauldron or play canasta like spiders,
throw runes, sing, or speak freely

and crawling back, november
morning, silver, bearing too sweet a light,
the dead craw of day widens.