I am fighting a ghost.
In a city and an apartment,
with a broomstick
with an umbrella
from my past.
At opposite corners of the room,
there are two man-sized speakers:
Wind blowing, and a voice talking
about the body, about the trees
about what is real
to the mist.
Succubus cat laying on my chest,
turns and scratches with one toe claw,
my outstretched arm.
Sniffing at my mouth,
sucking out my soul?
inserting doubt?
then disappearing.
I am left alone with
trying to remember
an itch, a scratching
I cannot stop scratching
where I placed the letter.
