The ghosts ragged and I'm ready,
here in this place of papered walls.
Death is somewhere, somewhere off
and the blind do ever wander.
A dusty cough. A glass of salt.
What would we do without short fingernails?
Or reread books? Or a million tiny threads
of tight spun cotton? The future may fray
and whatever was, ripped and burned
but this, these few moments,
they are holy. Hear the joke?
Hear the long, long laughter?
