Cassie Lewis

’Cause it’s alright, alright to see a ghost. — The National Rock quartz next to a fence with upturned faces. On the hill, on the other side a storm, or plausibly, you. Time keeps its footsteps regular until it is clapped upwards: a falcon glides into view. Dissolving into the pool in a splash of white, I saw you. In summer, the town goes to the drive-in. The edges of the coin keep moving as I stare at images through goggles, they fog out. Rooms go to pieces, sometimes, quietly. Curtains are no longer red, now they’re dusty. The cat moves. The room turns ocher and shifts, as wind blows through. O Brecht’s sky of streaming blue. It’s been days since I opened the book my face is watching. Cupboards slam in another part of the flat. The room reassembles, but it’s different now — outdated.