I share a crease with you
in a cozy book page.
The book sledom opens
lest a slight breeze ruffles the
delicate pages.
We are an old book,
a critized novel,
by a woman author.
She fell in love once
and her love affair took
her no where except
to find time to write
and to dig her grave
and today she walked
into her tomb cautiously,
and left her cat to the
care of her neighbors.
In this crease,
we yet to cease
the moment of frozen
rhythm
of shadows dance across the tiled
kitchen floors
and her ghostly
encounters evermore.
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