Till Only The Eyes Are Left

The muttering kept me awake
three nights, then resolved itself
into a black wind –
catching the road off balance
slamming it into walls
freezing it scalding it lifting
the skin from the roof of its mouth.

Then it went quiet. I stood
at our back door. The wind
came whining into our yard –
a stray dog begging scraps.

Get out. I won’t feed you.
I’ve seen you snarling, worrying
clusters of dead newsprint
tossing them up till they catch
in the apple tree, its branches
like barbed wire skewering
sentences, faces.

I watch the pictures split
again and again, till nothing
is left but the eyes of the dead
glowing like tiny lights
in the wet November dusk.
I turn my back on the tree
half hoping half afraid
the black wind might blow them
away, but their reflections
In the glass pane of the door
keep burning steadily.

I will draw the curtains across
every window in the house
and every night for a month
the faintest of noises will wake me:
the wings of moths rustling,
or the doors of an Advent calendar
closing one by one.