Phantoms bloom in Mirrors—
don’t breathe too hard on cold Days
a lead-masked Face looms in the Window—
don’t dig up strange Skulls.
I wad These up, stuff Them in
wherever They’ll fit—
maybe this time They’ll stay inside
They’re so warm—I hope They do.
but when the Sun is
lost in Favor of the Moon
every unknown Noise unfolds Them—
soon They’ve all
full of Holes and
Regrets and Cold,
I’m stuck between the Shadows
and the slinky Ones and the metal Ones
and the tiny Ones and every One else—
serves me right
Maybe this time I won’t get away.