it is cold;

and the cat’s pupils

have grown

which means

there are ghosts

with fingers transparent

holding my wrists

down on the marigold couch

where we used to make love—

and i cannot

dip my pen

into the distilled ink

that boils in my brain

for it is tainted

or rotten

like the milk

sleeping at the bottom of the glass;

something unknown

is swimming in it

polluting it

and the ghosts

oh the ghosts.

they howl at me

and mock me

as often the clock does

when it has struck 2

in the morning

and drip one by one

like the leak in the ceiling

bulging like a pregnant belly

into the inkwell

ah, oil spill

I must clean it up,

clean it up

oh,

but the taste

of applejuice and rum