Sunday, January 13, 2008

Specter

stealthily the ghosts return,
having exhausted all crevices of their deaths,
in vagrant hoping for the merest recollection
of a bruise or wetness

to the mothy other-worlded artifice they
once called Home. they come to stretch their
spirit legs bended from the coils of
a memory called Chair; they come knowing

they can't. they come transparent, as
expected, and yellow, as not. stair steps, however
rotted, do not, as hoped, creak, and their quietude
startles with the power it deprives.

and when these ghosts are seen, by fear, or
babies, in a not thoroughly witching hour,
the dead are more frightened than any
spectator.

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