How’s it look? I ask,
slipping my arms into the sleeves

of the scarecrow’s battered coat.
Good, she says,

but I already know the truth,
and by portentous coincidence,

the sky has just turned the same
disquieting shade of gray

as various diseases of the mind.
I hold my arms out like so

and assume the somber expression,
including opalescent eyes,

of someone remembering something
he wished he didn’t,

children overtaken on the road
by claw-footed shadows,

regardless of ancient promises
and the shrill little cries of the sun.