This is not the witching hour
that passed hours and years ago
this is the night of fireworks endlessly falling
of distantly visible arcus clouds
fragmenting into the shapes of pregnant warplanes

The house settles upon its foundations
every creek and sigh
a reconciliation for my bones
where such weariness is, etched
into the cells of my marrow.

I stand
to lay my hand, once again,
on my Scythe, my black-echoed Cloak
to ride
once again

into the humans’ infinities of wars.