eyes closed, bedside
Dreamt last night of the ghost of her going.
Howls at the touch of intricate fabric. The tearing down of corridors held tight like stitching across the brow where you touched marble, split upside to spill the hatred out of
younger days (your brother, chasing to catch such passing).
And older you rest on the cusp of these chances, scarred but wiser; and, grown cynical, quit the hold of the ghouls of intimacy, sounds of things unseen: father,
there were whispers of your faith, incantation to seraphic beasts, arm folded on breast—then, wishing your children a goodnight sleep, head downstairs to rest.