Cold fingertips
I’ve been dead for a long time,
little more than a gift
for the field mice,
for the beetles and rooks.
Cold eyelashes
I’ve been down here
for days and weeks,
while everything is
thinner on my bones
than it had been.
Cold everything
I’ve been singing,
but maybe the language of ghosts
is harder to understand
than I’d ever imagined.
Save me; I’m hungry, and alone,
and I don’t plan on
being either for long.
For a Long Time
