The ghost wants to walk through
your bedroom wall. When do you sleep?
The ghost wants to know. It wants to turn
the faucet on for your morning shower.
It’s helping. It fills your French press. The water
could be red. The ghost isn’t sure how
to fix that. Your nightgown is cotton, the kind
the ghost likes. The ghost reaches for your hem
like a cat would. If it were a cat, the ghost
could warm your ankles. It could make
the walking easier. The ghost doesn’t like it
when you go back to bed. The ghost opens
your shutters all at once because it’s morning.
Why are you sleeping now? The dust the ghost leaves
is white like a drug or a lime deposit. The taps
are still turned on. The ghost lets them wash
your tiles clean. It would kiss your face clean
like a cat, if you’d let it. The ghost would come
into your bed and stop your wild hands. Its hands
are what matter. Your comforter has weight.
If it spreads itself above you like a quilt,
you might feel it. The ghost wants you to feel it
again. The ghost has made a lake
of itself. You can take it into your lungs.