Rewriting Poe

on a neighbor’s porch; the wind
squeezes between its dangling shards
of pottery without disturbing one; there is no
sound … there are

I imagine, but I cannot hearn
them. And traffic stumbles down Archer Avenue
at 2:30 in the morning; headlights like cigarettes of would-be lovers – hands

stuffed into the pockets of their greatcoats, they
stroll, side-by-side, among the fog-wrapped harbor streets …

They do not speak. There should be
background music; at least. A camera to
pan upwards, drawing slowly back,
as credits climb the screen … there should be
a full moon

that filigrees the dark mesh of clouds
with intricate webbing ; our breath mingles
to form a moth that stutters uneasily between us, that
plucks the moon’s webbing like a guitar

because it cannot speak. Behind your green eyes,
the long black leg of a spider stirs hungrily.