My day ghost is blooming.

The invisible guest at my

breakfast table is no interloper,

she fixes her place every morning.

I've tried offerings of sunlight,

neatly detached crows’ wings,

smooth white china cups.

But she just sits rapping her

fingers on my surfaces, tears

strips of paper out of books,

provocative little acts like trying on

my boots and everywhere leaving

that heavy, sweet scent dripping

her oily griefs. I cannot give her

what she wants. I'll watch her

rehearse: swimming up stairwells

but never quite … later in bed, reading

my book on temples, I apply hand cream,

reflecting on her day, knowing how

she hates the smell of hawthorn.