The day begins,
a candle burning
at both ends,
she a moth
that seeks the light.

The flame responds
to the beating
of her wings,
gray walls stir
and blink their eyes.

Her body is warm
but the floor is cold:
wax stiffens on the tile,
petal-fingers fallen
from dead hands.

The ghosts are out again:
the house belongs to them.

They conjure clouds
and hollow-muted sounds,
press firmly the nails
in coffin lids.

The kind ones
lead her back to bed:
she asks not who,
or how, or when.

Another looks
my way and shrugs:
it is night again.

June 18, 2006

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