on the 25th hour the supermarket opens for ghosts. 

flickering ceiling light. long
cold fingers. a figure 
on the ceiling. relearning 
how to sleep. the sun unfurling 
its long summer dress until it is cold
& silent. in the morning,
the birds carry packages 
from the market. i hold up a ziploc bag
full of fears. they are only trinkets.
i am a souvenir. a good momento 
from a better time when fish were not fish
& the water was 
a safe place to be.
when the clock talks 
in its bellowing sunsey voice
everyone listens & worships 
a special tree. a knock at my backdoor 
lets me know i am never alone 
not even on the mountain.
not even when all the doors 
are shut tight. the ghosts 
chew on cotton-like morsels.
their lips transparent 
& glimmering. i try to eat too
but they warn me the food of ghosts
turns one into a ghost.
this is a decision for another day
but i don't think i'd make
a bad ghost. i tell my dog it's best
not to bark at phantoms. 
a scream is an inversion 
of the self. my feet
are often made of glass. 
i sit at the window & watch
as the ghouls pass
in a parade towards the moon.
i eat with my fingers. i am waiting
for god to bestow 
the internet upon me.
aisles of green. aisles of blue
a finger to a mouth. a finger
dipped into long hair.
the limbs of trees caressing windows.
my backyard is made of stone 
& it is waiting to cradle more birds.
i twist the blinds shut
so no one has to know 
about us. the floor boards 
chirp. a toad carries a fork
in his mouth. wires. no many wires.
they purchase them & fill
in their duffle bags.
what do ghosts need with wires?
i consider following them
but then i remind myself
the color orange is meant
for people like me. 
i check my chest for welts.
none. i check my face 
for mosquito bites. i am safe.
if i am a ghost i should not tell anyone.
yes, i will keep it tucked away.
a bed sheet is waiting for me.
a shopping cart is drifting
across the ceiling.