On The Harmonium

My canceled flesh waits,
the harmonium warms up.
A crowd of memories in the
walls wait, they are the
ghost salon.

It plays so that the sleeping
country may awaken,
and find it has missed
a whole metamorphosis,
a dead lifetime.

Shed skin, dirty clothes
wriggled up on the floor-
the harmonium warms up,
our ghosts wait to hear
a song so blue.

The empty country sleeps,
asleep through winter,
and in spring,
she gathers Demeter
to play a song

on the harmonium.