OCTOBER

October 6—13 minutes past the third hour.

A formless fog rolls in—

with it, something screams,

then is gone.

A raven stands over a rat—

punctured, left open to the dark.

One eye catches the light.

The other—in the black.

It stays with you.

October 7

By morning,

Edgar Allan Poe is gone.

Found days earlier—

wandering,

not himself—

he never recovers.

No clear cause.

An ending

that feels like it was waiting.

October 9

They put his name in stone

in Baltimore.

For a while—

it passes.

Then it comes back.

Like the fog—

not called,

not stopped.