Gnawing at the bones of the worms swarming
blind, eyeless, writhing in their own decay
discarding the leaves, brittle shells of beetles
the maw of the dark always hungry
with something older that time remembers
when the earth was unplowed and empty
an absence that swallows the mole whole
waiting for the day the sun forgets to rise
now legions of cicadas feathering their nest
in the hollowed ribs of Sleepy Hollow
as silent as the grave’s first breath
building cathedrals from the rot
