It was winter then as it is now,
when ghosts emerge with the quick dark.
I wanted to swallow the stars,
dark-pointed and smelling of anise.
I wanted to put away for good those old
angers I thought I’d dispatched.
They flickered, elusive as ever
—though not as powerful.
When next I looked, only small
brown birds picking through gravel.
I’d seen that dirty mirror before, rubbed
its edges with the corner of a sleeve.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.