Awaking from Nightmares, Ghost Hangs His Laundry.
Horrible, most horrible, and common. Crimes of your own conception
against all, it seems, who dared love you,
scenes that can't die quickly enough in the irradiating day. It
didn't happen, or not much, or that you recall, so why
the net of horrors dredged nightly? Were you such, or feared or longed
to be? Untangling a knot of garment helps.
Sunlight warm on morning, wrens and sparrows to their work, damp grass.
Threadbare socks just so, each according
to design and matching other. Hung pants collapsed and amputated. Best
the shirts. Empty, reaching arms,
their stitching worn, yes. But dark cloth--fabric spun from
earth--enrobing air, burned lighter each moment,
gentle sail to all held and released, insinuation of the body that was
Ghost, its terrors and longings--then nothing.