Creatures from interstitial regions,
some of them winged, others just feathered,
yet others flaunting horns and tails,
bastards that inhabit fancy times,
they sell half-baked ideologies to ghosts
or sit on the tops of the mounds and towers
that gather darkness inside, darkness
too humid to burn, waiting
for the forecast snow that won’t fall.
Mannequins float down the creeks,
bumping against the stones.