He is rid away to the tenant farms and I take up my pen to list the shakings-out and openings. And my thin letters lean as sails that, though driven, cannot arrive. May the ninth, I write. And: Mrs. Ferguson. Unbutton the bed pillows and plump them to the air. Then: Take the curtains down and with your broom unseat the spiders' webs. Open the windows and leave them wide and here the thread trails off, among the cottages with their spring festoons of eggs pricked with pins and blown, fragile as the blacksmith's daughter dreaming in the sun, who lifts her skirts above her white knees. I pull back behind a hedge. Let her not meet me, with my dry pen.
Patsy Sees a Ghost
I'm crossing the river where it narrows, carefully, it being Sunday and I'm past the root end of the log when I look up, and there's a haunt sitting on the blossom end. I can see trumpet vine and blackberries through her white dress. Gnats hang in the air. The river runs, red-brown and deep. The haunt sings and it's my music, the blood song of my heart and bones and my skull dancing in the road. And Chloe, she knows my name. She says Oh Patsy, take care, or you will surely fall and the thick river will pull you too to shroudy weeds and you'll be gone, gone as the moment you looked up and saw the trumpet vine and berrries, hot and ready through my white dress, gone as all the years since I died, and waited here for you.