Phineas wished, for the two-thousand-three-hundred-and-twenty-third time, that he had a different name. His father was in the army, and the family moved fairly often. No, unfairly often. There was ... [+]
There's something in the woodsthe same thing that hidesin the closetunder the bedin shadows behind old housesamong weeds and empty bottlesin abandoned city lotsThe thing that will not tellits namehides on the edge of the mindjust behind the memoryof late Octoberon the smell of burning leavesashes in cold fireplacesdead yellow flowersjust before summerbegins its reign of terrorIt feeds on forgetfulnessand growsby what fallsfrom the turning grindstone of time