The Shopkeeper

When the shop is still and newly closed
the remnants of the day’s previous callers
rise from the sweepings
as if to crowd the silence
 
souls . . .
and the ghosts of previous souls . . .
     (their dusty halos . . . fracturing . . .
         . . . into lean tenuous fingers . . . )
snake about the room . . .
impaled on a golden lattice
stretching through the curtain
of a western window
 
there . . .
amid the familiarity and hope that breed in the twilight . . .
the shopkeeper yields to a vague melody . . .
the remnants of a previous caller . . .
halo fracturing . . .
as his lean tenuous fingers
crowd the silence . . .
touching the thin gold chords
that pierce her heart
like harpstrings