I found the image in the attic,
In the half-light blurred, static,
Like a votive, intensely vatic.
In a shadow box, five white stones
All shaped like finger bones
Arranged in a question mark,
A gesture beckoning a dark
Something beyond conceiving
Into the emptiness of believing.
I took it and nailed it to a wall
Downstairs, only to watch it fall,
Its glass crack, the stones scatter.
I think they no longer matter,
But I’m wrong. I see them still,
Years later. They won’t, and will.
They're like ghosts no ghost can kill.