Knitted delights
make light work of
short change
and we’re poor again
in an instant.

These trembling fingers
rummage thread
as though to stir
it to waking,
and then it’s gone.

Prick and whittle
the mounds of
false flesh
so they hang
lifeless and keen.

The ghosts wear shawls
and I’m jealous of the noises they make.

The walls are tired and lean back
when I take a breath after moving around.

The dusted pots are only awoken
when the door snaps and we sing.

These terracotta clouds make
children of us all.

When you wake I will be gone
as will that sound that moves you.

Try not to dream;
the ghosts where shawls.