–Hilda RazThe soaked books lip open in piles.The shelves stoop, slough paint.The doors, their locks sprung, hinge airopen to weather, gulp rain.Something here enters the trees.If we believe in ghosts, white pearlshadows the batten and boards. Rustruns on the shelves. The sounds on airwail, a nail in the thumb. Stickersunderfoot poke holes.In rafters, wings or the suggestion of wingsrend air, whoosh of rubbish, burnt rubberhooks for skeleton elbows. Ash,dry sift through moist fingersin a room where everything’s mold.
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