Haunted Places
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By one in the morning, the world has given uppretending it is awake. Streetlights blinklike tired eyes,the wind forgetswhere it was going, and even the cricketslower their voices. Only this housestill keeps watch. Its windows,black as crow feathers,stare through meinstead of at me. The porch sighsbeneath every breath of wind,as though someone unseenhas just shifted…
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There is a houseat the edge of forgetting, where the windowsno longer rememberwhat light looked like. I sit beneath its broken porchwith a candlebalanced between my hands, letting the flamepretend it is brave enoughto keep the dark away. The wind speaks first. It always does. It slips through cracked boardslike old ghostsstill pacing familiar hallways,searching…
Between Bruises and Blooms 