The Eyes of the Pumpkin

The Eyes of the Pumpkin

The candle soots the roof of my skull,  
this cap carved out of the top of my head,
sitting on a slab staring at begging children
whose greedy bags rustle the end of October.

My memory of harvest  
is a snap of the umbilical,  
now a tufted handle of decay.

The candle, feigning a brain,
has flickered evening away;
thoughts set in wax
on the floor of my mouth —
the last child has rustled the leaves

all sweets are given away,   
my eyes black holes.