There Be Skeletal Remains

There be skeletal remains,

in the ground, holding her,

left to itself, like when I

drink too much, I see her

across rooms.


There be Tygers on the moon.

If you look firm, they be source

light, for the acts done by her

—bright, fixed like lament.


There be Skeletons in my room.

Blacked out walls—white lines—

skeleton’s rubbing stone hips,

teeth pressed against absent lips,

left to pale…the haunted,

drunken nights with

vague, specter stares

in corners of rooms.


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