The ghosts at play beneath my skin
The ghosts at play beneath my skin
kill all happy thoughts. Children wither
down to sog and blisters
out on the street, under my touch.
My loving is a black cataclysm;
nympholepsy for leper’s bread.
I’ve staggered into light before:
when I was young, before all
the touching dried up, I played
the colors in my big American
backyard, blowing Spring
birds that never hung
around long enough to get
my name.
The ghosts at play beneath my skin
shake their candy-hot wings.
My nights, crowded with zombie sugar:
my dawns, doused with hounds
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