Though your familiar is familiar, I know nothing 

of your ghost town, nothing of what wakes 

you, panicked; nothing of what wakes 

you frequent in your sleep. 

Whether the roof slats mandolin the sun, striping 

twin beds; whether the moths feast 

on flaking paint, hospital green, 

or nibble clear–lichen their only filo.

Do balloons and bags of saline prune on trees? 

Are the wreaths on doors 

shorn lions’ manes?