Necromancy
Squeeze the shadow.
Milk the ghosts wearing
human skin. Go into labor,
build houses for them to haunt.
I dreamt of walking on a wall,
that the world is only lines and dots—
like a body without body
only its nervous system,
cords, nipples—
sucked by a mystical red cross.
A rusty faucet of words snapped,
ballooning silence for
sleep never without paralysis;
No deaths here, just ghosts
