I desperately need someone to invade my life,
Stuffing rolled up bundles of
Boisterous beauty in all its corners
To hide them in crevices I might not see for years,
In backs of shelves,
Behind boxes and stacks of papers
And stuffed into the toes
Of old shoes and boots
Small, soft gifts to discover in
Moments such as this
When hungry,
I hunt on hands and knees
Candle and feather,
(even for crumbs)
But all that I find in these
Strange, dusty corners,
For what it's worth
Someone else's ghosts
An insincere, and
Badly rendered copy of
That which I'm missing.
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