you say that sometimes
people become
ghosts and that those ghosts

sometimes get trapped
in still-life
pawing unconditionally
at shadows of passersby

that sometimes they become
the rotten floorboards
the old white walls
the low ceilings
the uneven
staircase
to nurtured rooms
to caves captured

on bedroom walls
with teeth
shaped like
yellow jackets

a newborn baby
grieving for
the pin-pricked dead

through the windows
it vanishes

crucified under a microscope
of the usual grinning face

even after life
even among the bones

a dull gunshot
made playmate
of an old white
woman's mouth

the carpet
the wallpaper
the caterpillar tread

staggering for some
distance and
falling in full view

a meteorite in the hands
of young lovers

their arms flying off
their legs flying off

the erupted luggage
of their babies
swept out
and away
across the earth