your existence: entropic.
Ghosts at night.
Rodin's heads, at the feet of the temple.
Including this one story.
When the ghost woke up, long after
midnight, under his cold-breezy
hood slipped through and himself
dropped into a human.
(Dropped for a single day
into a human with an hourglass figure.)
You believe, only the passport has an identity?
You believe, this is hauntings galore?
No, for me it was the dress,
that blows.