Death in the Wind House

I read a poem with this phrase,
Which this poem steals, like a kiss

From the grey lips of a corpse,
As in myths. Now toss the dirt.

It’s weird, but not all that rare.
Poems are ghouls. Flesh gives us ghosts

Like fine shawls, scrim gowns to wear.
You know, the ghost is the sheet,

Not the shape that glides in it.
The poem gives the sheet a form,

Twirls it, gives the kiss a lift.
We’re such flirts. I’m just your dirt.