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.