Ghost Stories

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

crawled out

through Me.

 

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.

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