In this house, the ghosts are as common as hung laundry--
they are yellowed newspapers caught behind the lattice-work,beneath the porch.
Down a long straight hallway--the bloom at stem's tip--
a paper lily,
my collection of you, shining with rain.
A woman got in the only way I had left unguarded,
in the steam from a midnight kettle.
She wore silk from Chinese mulberry
and dismissed me as curator with softness and tongue.
She made her body a maze between me and my lily room,
a baffle for your gifted ghosts.
My desk is in the bedroom now
with an aubade on the wood, in fresh polish.
for Micro Poetry "Long Ago Rooms"