Motel Ghosts Ever wonder where they go? The souls of the extinct—not the bones of pipistrelles, finer than eyelashes, the rufous down of boobook owls or starry pelts of quolls, …

Widow-makers, they call your boughs that plunge                    without warning, crush soft bodies beneath.  Yet I know you are not death but grief’s balled fist come down.  For seven years I decompose below your …