The day before, the bones scatter on the valley floor,
helped by the clean-up vulture crew,
laid out to dry in the sun.
There is a photograph hanging of the witch of Endor,
grotesque in its details, she is all warts and wounds
and whatever the cauldron cooks up.
Lazarus lurks in the back of a cave, bound in white bandages,
like a child dressed for a Hallowe’en party,
giggly and wriggly, expecting some fun.
It is not always darkest before the dawn.
Sometimes the very night is alight
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