incanting, his face shielded from the gods by the hood of his cloak
in his quest to reanimate his lover,
he sits on the earth holding her skull wrapped in ivy
gently between his thighs, both hands contorted in signs

the blue sky suddenly swims with pale circular forms
like balloons or seven hundred soft eclipses dancing:
the impossible moons of Hastur

the skull screams, babbling incoherent rhymes
his concentration lapses and he cries out for her
but the skull screams on


now the specter lies buried in a lockbox
constantly repeating the name and occupation she held during life
begging for release, unable to see or hear

up rickety wooden stairs to a door, locked from within
by a set of interlocking chains and bolts
undisturbed for one hundred thirty four years

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