by Richard Cody


Dead men linger ‘round your window
most nights
as you lie in bed, sleeping.

Unaware of the dead,
you divide the dark between dreams and oblivion.
You never hear them creeping.

Once, flickering into consciousness,
you mistook a pale face for the moon.

When morning comes they wander
into bar rooms, alleys,
the bushes beside the freeway.

They mingle and hide as best they can,
haunted by your sleeping face
all through the burning day.


*Previously published in “This is Not My Heart.”