A ghost is born naked, squinting and glum.
There is no mother to catch it, nothing
to cling to with a tooth, a toe or thumb.
There are no older siblings for learning
the ways of the night. If you can hear bats
sing you can hear ghosts sigh. Few ask, what’s wrong?
ask how the day went? What paramour chats
with a ghost — tea and laughter — all nightlong?
I don’t resent this coming to an end.
Now when I sleep I hide in a wall crack
and my face is modest. I don’t resent
rebirth; finding out that ghost dreams depend
on how forgotten we’ll become; flashback
to when we thought we knew what alone meant.