i come from a city of sleeping
ghosts that do not remember
where they were born: i keep
raw honey in the attic of my
mother's mother's funeral
home so somehow they
will learn to be bittersweet -
i only need them when
i'm craving tea, i think i'll
die before learning to sleep
without flowers and sugar
pressed to the cave of my mouth
as a raven hiding from
man's shadow
and the
night.