At the edge of consciousness,

a rhythmic sound

like breath

of leaves being swept,

of leaves sweeping

the window, the wall,

the rooftop–

distinct from the floating thunder

of the Lunalilo freeway,

consistent in its persistence,

persistent in its anonymity.

Dream state descending,

the ascent of awareness.

In the shroud covered stillness

I hear her–whispers of a ghost

that came with the house–

on the other side of my dream.

Talk story

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