Every night I go into my study and

put an old record on the turn table.

When the needle touches down and starts scratching the vinyl

it tears the air,

which parts, and folds open like a tent flap in the cosmos.

Out stumbles a parade of ghosts.

All generations past and present.

Faint like the characters behind static

in an old rabbit-eared television.

A faded and flickering soiree and,

I find myself dancing with skeletons in the dark.