She snuggles into bed, soft sheets enfold
Her shoulders, and her young round face
Is ringed by moonlight shining from the cold
And star-specked night. The silver trace
Makes gnarly hands of branches, and the old
Gray pickets into graves, where in their place
Fog wisps might curl like specters; yet the wold
Lies easy, and she sleeps in happy place.

Yet things about her stir. No ghost shall moan,
No graveyard ghoul shall bring infernal strife,
Yet icons flicker on her muted phone,
And toys on shelves lie full of mimicked life.
As pulses crawl in blind electric races,
She rests complicit with her current graces.