Visitation

Speaking of lost souls, one sat on the drumstick tree
at the farthest end of the garden pelting stones at passersby.

I kept the windows closed, the tuber rose on the window sill
brought her over at night.  I heard the grating of sticks,

dry, one against the other: sticks that crow from the broom carried
on trips back forth back forth to the hollow of a coconut tree.

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