Cobweb Encased Hands

Something in it harkens to the hungry past
inside the thin skeleton of a shrew.

The sound of a plastic bag on the counter
pushed by the wind of a fan;

It is a ghost, a wing moving in the concentrated dark,
the dresses in the closet swaying in the dark
so dense you can feel it against your skin.

I put one hand out to find the wall.
Something God knows
scratches inside of the wall.

The chickadees will
wake up
when the cows wake up and the
misers
of mummified boardgames
make up their minds;

And when the larvae has been harvested,
their eyeless, mouthless, mindless
ends moving

in the infirmary, reaching for their parents.