Ghosts are in my life,
some do more than whisper
and some are falling,
rooms are vacant
with their wired voices,
they are threatening death
with its gripless grasp,

some love my mailbox
and some love my involuntary headset,
some recognize my yielding fade
some see the remaining spasm,
sometimes I use their whole alphabet on me
like a wound being scratched,
sometimes I need their silence
like a worldwide bomb.