Our poetry is made from blurbs of apparitions
Those have vaguely tapering tails in place of legs
Like you draw them roundly in kids’ magazines
Vanishing in trees, if you answer a ghost’s riddle
And if you don’t answer, head will break in pieces.
Somewhere in the head you have a thing growing
That makes your head break, even if you answer
As the ghost does not accept it as the right one
Because there are no right answers to its riddles.