Ghosts
We are the first dead in this house
Books in dysfunctional piles; debris,
Tins of old paint in the garage,
Airtight as the finish on bedroom doors.
A density of standing air,solemn
With the austerity of dried cornflowers.
Sour margarine on thin grey bread,
Old gruel of past weekdays, gone;
Children`s laughter in a bottle,
Too late, too cold, now not part of it.
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