Some ghosts are women,neither abstract nor pale,their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghostswho come, moving their useless armslike forsaken servants.
Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;fat, white-bellied men,wearing their genitals like old rags.
Not devils, but ghosts.
This one thumps barefoot, lurchingabove my bed.
But that isn't all.
Some ghosts are children.
Not angels, but ghosts;curling like pink tea cupson any pillow, or kicking,showing their innocent bottoms, wailingfor Lucifer.
