“Moon”
Erasers in our backyard
our silhouettes to sleep
she lays her evil eggs
behind ferns, under bushes
his tooth is loose again
and all cooks vacated the henhouse
this isn’t your place anymore
the breezes linger amidst the trees
wishing to speak before passing on
the knots in oak street
and your heart glows to cinnamon
streetlights fall into purses
private rituals, intimate places
across green sands
a shadow and you on your apple tree
overlooking the hill with the horses
you rode bareback to call boyfriends
scary and merry and all tell-tale signs
the scars driven into diaries
the night they never let go
cloudy leaves
fallen through owl spirits.
nicholauspatnaude 
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