I sleep in the bedroom of a dead woman.
She’s no trouble.
I saw her, but just once, the night we moved in.
Maybe it was exhaustion, and even my hair ached.
But in a shaft of moonlight, just as sleep took me,
I had a brief impression of someone in lace and a gown,
Just standing there like a column of smoke.
She died in this room and they had the wake downstairs
In the front room with the tall bay windows.
They laid her in a grave in the old Quaker cemetery,
A private and quiet place surrounded by a brick wall. .
For 134 years the wind
Whistles its song through the
the iron gate, and over the stones,
a song without words.
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