there are wild places here and there

huddling houses deep within
a shadowy
cracked-earth palm
surrounded by thickened lumpen fingers
in a dead hand frozen endlessly
in a icy fleshy semi-fist

and inside there are lonely haunted souls
who do not truly feel protected
who cannot comprehend the summer
with drooping eyes that yearn for sleep
to sleep and sleep perchance to die
escaping from the unpredicted
the time and date that slaps the face
cold white clouds wounded bleeding
bleeding lines
of light