Refuge (Poetry)

If it weren’t for my ceiling
these shadows would be homeless —
they roost up there, hug the corners
grateful for a roof.

They wouldn’t survive outside —
the sky would lunge and swallow them,
their thinness pierced by searching air,
packs of sharp headlamps hunting them down...

At dusk, they congregate,
slip one by one in shapeless coats,
invade my living room
claiming refuge on the quiet.

I let all phantoms sleep — hung where they will,
ask no questions, let them come and go
between their half-perceived dimension
and my imagined space.