Up too late with a mouthful of feathers.
Alone with the sheets shoved
to the end of the bed. Hot. Lost.
What ghost have I fallen for?
What ghost would fall for me?
I am no one’s idea of flight.
I would crawl across
this darkened floor. I would do anything.
My hands are a church. Bed. Nest.
Here. I will let you rest.
Header photograph © S. Schirl Smith.