all these girls with ghost eyes
and loose skirts
seem to be from Brooklyn these days
with slow words
or warm tones

and each one turns me on
with ghost eyes
and visions of the drugs in their
raspy voices
smokey apartments
with tapestries
and resin in fine glass
and wanderin hands
and ghost eyes

and their loose skirts
swaying
with slow movements
to folk lyrics or eastern instruments

and all the new light
accentuating old dust
in still air
in Brooklyn
for their ghost eyes