Amee Broumand
ghoststory
a pattering down upon all, blearing the windows
of houses (patter) of cars (patter) and glowing
streetlamps (pattern) (the lights within watch—grey
turns to darkwater, falling—papershapes
pinned upon fabric, the dress to-be looks up (sightless) at
the dressmaker, who crouches down and takes
hold (her daughter a royal damsel, yes) struggling to wield
(in the rainlight) scissors (mere fabric feels
nothing—red and gold, the wet leaves (dead)
plaster the walkways and lanes (here, papers and pages that lastly
sog, yielding to an old hand and every foot that patters
in darkness home—
les nuits d’hiver
I would discard yet also keep
my sex (I am an old man
fierce and earthen, not the slim girl
in the glass (yet I feel no need
to make others see this facet
of me (I walk in ambiguity like
the dusk, reveling in my tensions,
drawing them taut (a spider
is nothing without them, nor her sack
of howling puce—
sunset at the shell of all
what great whorl is this,
what roseravish tart, untested
(shall I taste you? (the spell
of the goldhour seizes my soul,
eating me until I’m all bone
and one with the light (how fast
it goes—
the cœur, the heat
officially
I was never in a war—(nine
(nine?) years later
after the dreams and the drinking
I still see your stars—
(the light descends
violet—
