Winter’s last full moon
and we are in bed too early.
Sticky from the unseasonable warmth and my body,
surging from hormones.

Sleep comes in fits
as the  clock on the church counts down the hours.
And you, beside me
sleep the
scattered sleep
of dreams.

A door somewhere
slowly creaks open
and closed.
The dog growls
and I lie still,
listening.
Beside me, you
wake from your dream,
speak of hauntings.

We talk of dreams
and ghosts
and I think
how sweet it would be
To be haunted
by something
as benign as a ghost
Opening doors
in the night.