Manner faded

This poem is part of an experiment in rewriting Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour as poetry. This is from page 6 of the Knopf hardcover first edition.

Wandered into the
crevice worn ancient,
had to admit the
full decay had been born in a
darkening word.

Worry in a dirty frame in the hallway:
What did it mean to not know the full names of
past heritage, manner faded and stooped.

Tiny black beetles draw close to the scent of mold,
camphor. Sweet fragrance of
untouched fields, patient photographs.