nocturne

through storm-tossed trees
daylight
wistfully wanes. . .
upon the courts,
pale wraiths
—with purple knees,
affect their spartan
shorts.
—and sneeze. . .
so diabolically they
prance, their
frozen faces grim.
and brandishing
relentless bats,
display a frigid
limb.
night settles on
the storm-tossed
tress. . .
the city lights her lamps.
—Victoria isn't haunted,
kids;
it's just the tennis
champs.

—i sappho.