A charcoal painting above my piano sometimes
has a witch in a house in it, and sometimes it has
only the wind. Sometimes I love it, and sometimes
I love it more. And I love it best when the wind
comes along, sweeps up the witch, the house, and
leaves us with a blank canvas, and I am three years old
again, and not afraid of ghosts, although I don’t
feel that way, although everyone says I look that way
in the beautiful house in the painting where I live.
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