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.
to lay my hand, once again,
on my Scythe, my black-echoed Cloak
into the humans’ infinities of wars.