what good Halloween is to us by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

I am not a silent poet

those cut off hands —
however so very preternatural
like a mere spectre autumnal —
choke easily on the finite border
of their semantic mischance.
we go to bed knowing
after the dark
deathwatch beetle & dry rot will swarm about
the wicked genii of metaphors, metonyms, synecdoches or litotes
under the rag of our skin
& we can elude the haunting brute
in sleep.
what good Halloween is to us if
hands they remain the mere ones
crawling backwards down the gutter of
a Milky Way so full of petrels
hovering over a figure of speech
nailed to the Children under the rubble in Syria
who just boo away
boo away
boo away
the ghosts
whatsoever lazy or fearing
to guffaw over the stubble of hands 

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