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If there was a ghost, he's gone now and no one
can hurt you. If you were a ghost,
you'd be gone now, too. This house is a ghost,

and in its walls ghost organs blush without blood.
If you lift the floorboards, ghost wood
splinters into your fingertips, encysting like memories.

If only the house had been sold, then we would see
each other for who we were,
though bodies are the ghosts of our previous cells,

and those of us are never coming back. If a ghost,
then something once, living.
If in a certain light, I can see through my flesh.

If in the dark, I can see nothing at all. If you come,
ghost, you can rescue yourself.
If I hold my breath till it aches, I rescue us both.

Andrew Kozma’s poems have appeared in Blackbird, Subtropics, Redactions, and Best American Poetry 2015. His book of poems, City of Regret (Zone 3 Press, 2007), won the Zone 3 First Book Award.
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