Talking wild

This is a continuation of my current experiment, rewriting Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour as poetry. This poem is from Page 5 of the Knopf First Edition hardback.

House in summer, heat and old wood, fear talking through peeling paint.

Pause. Look up: The tangle of lace and decay in the air, hands arching, enmeshed with the
song of deserted streets.

Dusty hallway, shuffle into patient dusk. Talking wild of
black water and oak branches, unbroken dark and a
house beyond itself.

That smell rotted through, damp gray clawing in a brilliant, frightful way.