“In just a little while, the wicked will be no more; though you look carefully at his place, he will not be there.”
I spied the wasp nest
at the end of October
nestled into the
crook of an alder
crowded with lichens–
a mummified head
shrouded in silence,
nothing moving
in the failing twilight
over the ghost-house,
save a tremor of leaves
and memories of war,
the terrorist attacks
from the summer before.