Ghost Rain

Entangled in the folds of sleep,

I struggle myself into a place

so vertical and glum I can’t feel

the ground where my feet should be.

Fever drags me into winter rain.

Am I sleepwalking? The weather

doesn’t soak me through as it should.

It’s only the ghost of weather past

and lacks the muscle to compel

landscapes to kneel in its wake.

No one’s here but me. No one

tries to rescue me from the wind

that whirls in my throat and spills

over everything in my room,

flipping the pages of books,

 rattling my kitchen utensils,

and tilting pictures on the walls.

I tell myself I’m safely asleep,

but city streets cry like banshees

and the ghost rain mops up the filth.