Between absinthe and Corinthians,
between linoleum
and Lamanites,
ghosts—what else? Ghosts
and more ghosts.
Ghosts who haunt
the salt shaker and sugar bowl,
who howl like pesos
as you pass.
Ghosts who speak of skulls
in careful English,
who smoke
cigarettes indoors, whose heads
are titled by a toxic lack
of locks.
Ghosts who write love letters
to ghosts, who linger light
as book-pressed
butterflies upon the lips
of the living,
and lollipop alike, who stand—
who always stand—
behind you
like a lightning-crippled tree.