Ghosts

Dark settles on the walls. The streetlamp blinks light,

Dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside the room

Pares its wings on the glass, falls to the windowsill,

Then does it again. My eyelids do the same.

I imagine his mouth; the ghosts under his tongue

Slide through the cracks of his teeth, find mine, stay there.

And the birds at the backs of our eyes drink too much to leave.

He told me there's a life of everything, somewhere

Else; one that isn't made of feathers or concrete.

I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,

He, the sun, and my guts would be warm under him.