As candle, as fur-light, as I lay waking, was staring me down
With cold orchid stones. She must have died

From wanting a human
Reply. So much like, so near,

Or hosts I don’t know spoke
Through her: Nuns and some cornered by she-hounds,

et al. Her inarticulateness made apology.
It was not her look but a knowledge that she had.

Maybe the wraith I glimpsed autumning
Behind her still appears on this earth, as suggested,

Where spigots are clicked by pewter leaves
Heard fleeing (the neighbor calling from her kitchen door . . .)

(Ac: Barrow Street)