a ghost is hanging
from the doorpost
of our past—

can you see it?
it has wounds—it’s bleeding
years from its mouth

[ . ]

when we left our
houses that april
it was for history’s pleasure—

twice the war was
in far-flung towns
then it grew a light foot

and veered
toward us like an

[ . ]

it was not my intention
to lie on behalf
of the government—

or on behalf of history
we did not leave 
the village or the house
nor the portmanteau
by the curbside spilling
its shame of