~“I’m haunted, I don’t find the poetry,
It finds me”
~Li-Young Lee

I knew then, what to call it
Walking, head down
And smoking
I could feel The Following
Pressing those points
Of bone and sinew in my back
Then slowly sliding inside my mouth
And I would be chewing it
This ghost
Turning it over with my tongue

At night
My pillow writhes with small demons
These small thoughts
With words on pitchforks
Happenstance bonfires burning
Turning
And I roll my lids over them
And observe them with closed eyes

Tonight,
I sit here, paused for him,
And wait….
And wait…..
For his familiar head to gust
Through my bedroom door