Rumblin', from across the street.
Was that my old man or a train rollin by?
One in the same I guess.
The ghosts are restless tonight.
Comin' and goin' like chronic malaria.
Ghosts are free from everyday life where predictability is a chosen cousin to death.
Winter in Montreal, saw a ghost in the kitchen.
Her words whispered through me, “transformation is linguistic.”
I guess this dance is a prayer, every movement is conversation with eternity.