With Invocation

I will call you 
in a moon night-through 
a fragile letter, 
for extracting the end of beginning 
to do a Houdini 
to escape from the straitjacket 
of your own commitment. 

Decades on- 
the house still carries the smudges 
on the walls, where you 
wrote dreams in vermilion 
and later on singed yourself out- 
to become disfigured. 

For whom you laid seige, 
your silence, becoming a song? A sculpted mutiny to 
collect the thin bones asking 
the moon to send more light. 
Timeless a death waits in the shadows 
for a fat answer. 
I will spread the salt.