Out here, factories house streets

beside mailboxes and addresses.

Autumn’s leaves swollen still

in dried puddles. The homes

boxed blue and yellow, stained in ivy

and cigarettes. Through the windows

a doe darts after pentagrams

and names. A kid leads us through

fallen paneling and broken glass, whistles,

you know my friend was possessed

here. We found him

fishing up the creek and happily,

he pulls fencing away for us. Points

to each corner of graffitied

ritual. The factories plume

the sky of dusk. Our polaroids

mist—develop as reverie, stolen

memories. We talk of ghosts.

Guess at who would’ve lived

in such a place. He tells us,

they bought it all out, shows us

the room the possession

happened, says, you can feel it,

can’t you? That something happened here.