And winds to pull down,
The tales are what’s left
On this side of town.
Sit still. Knit your brows.
Don’t you dare touch those.
The words you can pick,
But not the whole rows.
Just wait by the creek.
Just sit on this rock.
Give the dead the choice
To blow through to talk.
So I did. I sat
And wrote my own lines.
When the ghosts came by,
Each one sobbed, That’s mine.
