She has ghost fingers
five on each hand
that are silent
and watchful
they glow
in the night
while she dreams in bed
and scuttle off
as the clock rings twelve
in the silent house
her ghost fingers scurry
out into the wet lawn
under the stars
and the old oak tree
they tiptoe through the road,
illuminated by streetlights,
hopping over gutters
that get in their way
finally, her ghost fingers arrive
at the tall brown house,
and scurry in
through the window
not a sound is made
but the midnight air shifts
as the mistake is corrected
her ghost fingers hurry back
out onto the dark road
running along the pavement
leaving a trail of fresh scarlet behind them