A Haunted House

A skull’s an awful place to find yourself

alone: it’s dark, and damp, and cramped, a-crawl

with thoughts, like insects, busy all the time.

The only time light gets inside is when

the bone is cracked: say, by an accident,

or surgery, or violent attack.

There is this strange impression created by

the eyes—a world outside the cranium.

But this is background noise, the buzz of flies:

a cloud of doubts rubbing hairy hands

together, looking forward to a meal

more substantial than your mind. More real.