The Wisteria Of Twilight by Akeith Walters Autumn, buckled by the east Texas wind, stomps its boots around the loose roots of your house, porch-pacing and push-peering through slump-back screens trying to get in. Twilight’s buttered edge smears a greasy shade across slices of time-bleached boards. I sit on bowed steps pulling your worn sweater closer and inhale the smell of talc that lingers in the threads the way your ghost lingers near the threshold of the door. An exhale from my cigarette drifts to lift and caress your face. I wish the pale smoke was my hand instead, at least one last time, but you can not be touched anymore. You wait, wearing the outline of a housedress, a grey shadow against grey shadows that does not billow in the coarse breeze while a silent smile catches your lips in a glance overhead at the dance of yellow sweet gums leaves. There, the early moonlight perches to watch me sip from a cup of ice melting in bourbon, that mother’s milk for an old man whose beady eyes reflect the way one day, like one season, or even one life, Gyroscope Review 2!