The territory grows old now,
all the graves are quiet. Outrage
lies buried under rubble
with the corpse of the black rat.
Someone called off the wolves,
muzzled their slabber jaws.
Ectoplasm has eaten itself, and the poltergeist
who blunted my knives
is pickled raw in a glass bottle
under the sink with the bleach.
The ouija board spells benign messages
like ‘change that light bulb’,
‘you’re out of milk’,
‘time is a hate grealer...’
The night garden lends hooting owls,
silver leaves glimmer under the rain.