Within

The back door.
Closed and locked it
and there's no one in there.
Then pause to listen
at the back door
for any sound.
In passing
empty bedroom
from a hallway
into vision
there jerks
an apparition
a figure all of shadow
caught as the fragmenting
tree trunk.
As a sinew,
a splinter
of gristly meat,
dental-flossed
between teeth.
Fixed motionless
in between the edges
of the fine crack
in earth's tectonic plates.
Unable to move.
It is we whom
the ghosts
fear the most.
For;
we live.
I listen carefully
to the back
of the door.
For any sounds
from within.
After
I've closed it.