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why are boxes made for wild things? me being box-sized is no justification for putting me in one. i change my shape but the scriveners they are fleet-fingered and they are everywhere, they are in the parks, with strollers, dogs, a newspaper, an electrolyte drink and a nod, ready with their corrugated, laminated, or plain sheets of understanding where people belong ready to take my measurements and profile photo to gloss over my glory and wonder and mystery and lineage and heritage with whatever designs help them tame their fears of remembering their own wildness what's left behind when I peel away this freshly pressed name tag from its backing is the truth that i have no title, i am stripped of the beauty of being unnamed and can no longer cast furtive glances from behind papyrus stalks at the water's edge as when i first beheld you i dodged and ducked the sparring jabs of placing you in a box of my own defensive making and danced out of what i thought i should wear for the

locked up forever in a shadow stricken house no memory why afraid of the light unworthy of redemption clinging to old sins a small sorrow stands silent behind dark curtains afraid to look out sad faceless spirit misplaced between time's edges forever haunted midnight moonlight weighs down the dust on window sills silent grains falling in the dark corners carefully built towers fall pride of ghosts laid low velocity of the moon wears away small flecks of time lost in the darkness starting once again the why is still forgotten deep in an old house being a ghost is a sketchy occupation