Greylighting

Past the wolf hour, fanitullen find the head
Recently shaken free of dreams and move

Into it, singing squatters, arranging
Themselves in the corners, hidden folk,

No matter what their names used to be
In whatever society this given skull has traveled.

Names aren’t important and names are
Everything, since the house of the predawn

Faint light has to have its furniture, but
The furnishings are never the same, not

Ever in even the same home, same skull,
Same brain. There’s a little whispering.