Dancing and dancing the lights made out of memories
flicker and fade and reflect back into a million new moves
choreographs, cartographic, and smiling glow-in-the-dark skulls
if you look at the picture right
while you push your things higher into the attic
because there is a room up there, with a little keyhole,
that you’ve never seen before but there is neon swelling
under the crack and I can hear bare feet,
I can smell butterscotch, maybe cloves, maybe nutmeg
dancing and dancing the nights made out of hieroglyphics in spray paint.
These are my stories, simply ghosts I haven’t caught yet.