Pristine
–Hilda Raz

The soaked books lip open in piles.

The shelves stoop, slough paint.

The doors, their locks sprung, hinge air

open to weather, gulp rain.

Something here enters the trees.

If we believe in ghosts, white pearl

shadows the batten and boards. Rust

runs on the shelves. The sounds on air

wail, a nail in the thumb. Stickers

underfoot poke holes.

In rafters, wings or the suggestion of wings

rend air, whoosh of rubbish, burnt rubber

hooks for skeleton elbows. Ash,

dry sift through moist fingers

in a room where everything’s mold.

Photo by Jezael Melgoza on Unsplash