Ghost-Written

My poems are ghost-written. I scarcely identify the visitants Mingling with heedless shadows. Poltergeists outfit my words. Though we converse, I hardly know them, And seldom fathom Their prophecies. My poems hemorrhage In convulsive madness Like the speaker in tongues, Unleashing foreboding fragments, That I might discern some divination. But my autonomous hands move on Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards For which I act only as outlet. My poems are ghost-written. My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed Down the page with ritual dance. Faith healers shout and wail, bending my lines wending a trail of travail, They conjure all specters to avail. My poems are ghost-written. My words breathe and writhe. They live as cells squirming for life. Yet, inflections within them always Mutter from another, A propulsion between impression and Arousal.