The wind has taken up residence
in my closet, rattling empty hangers
like bones, dancing my clothing
into bloated ghosts.
If only memory were a moaning
3 am breeze, whispering in, soon
emptying out again, no trace left
to shamble back to wakefulness
once I am limp, hollow,
awaiting refilling.
Copyright (c) 2001
by Beth Kinderman. This is my original
work, so please respect it.