<p>you say: two people crossing on</p>
<p>a flight of stairs is bad luck – you</p>
<p>can feel the ghosts trying</p>
<p>to reach out through the sudden</p>
<p>confusion of space – </p>
I would collect you – provisional
as china, gingerly offering
my arm for 5 minutes between Star
Mews and Stone Court, minding
you say: two people crossing on
a flight of stairs is bad luck – you
can feel the ghosts trying
to reach out through the sudden
confusion of space – who is
occupying, who is bequeathing—
like a twenty-pound note in a card
you would send as an unbirthday
present. Sometimes you’d invite me
in. Couldn’t enter otherwise – like
has-been vampires – and even then you’d
ferry me out as soon as humanly
possible. I did get to see your dolls
and the century-dust thick photos
—indescribably specific—
crammed into a small flat in a tiny
corner of a tiny country, indivisible
as an atom, split from incredible
love. You invite me in.
This time I stay.
