it nests inside my wretched house. mother swears i caught it on the trip,
thinks i hurt something i shouldn’t.
but ghosts don’t catch like colds. when i fall,
wine-drunk and pleased
soft hands pull my threads
sighing from under my bed
its a new gentleness
in every window, the same tired scene a blood-red sky and
the sun a fat tear
dripping down,
down,
down.
