poem

on the ghostly imagination of age winding
cotton vignettes
round worm index 
creeping with the tallow
to turn in alone

the cliche is the creaking
of an absent sound 
step then
hearth or 

cold breath

to detail an eye 
or splinter

a face which may appear
flickering in the dark

a milk sweet shard
spooned from the black yolk

as from behind the projector
comic gloom spreads
its lacking and effort
a mantle of fleeting erections
slipping fecal prediction 
into diseased hands