Ghost Choir

I dream of furniture set
underneath a broken trellis,
where honeysuckle twined
among the beans. Someone

watches from behind a curtain
in an upper window, in a house
where a widow woke from years
in a coma and stepped back

into life as if she'd just
returned from another country.
Birds flash in and out of
the leaves, lured by a memory

of nectar. When I close my eyes
I too can almost taste it. Flakes
fall through the air: dust
and the ghosts of dust.

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