more poems about ghosts (Only literally)

and the parts in my corner
make me awake and rapid
rabid for further consorts
as the sirens on the streets
sound like howling wolves
feasting
and my meaning is lost
and regained
and maintained by
midnight games

what do i do
when i have nothing to die for?
and a plane crash is too cliched
to remember after a week has passed
and bodies have washed up on the shore
to sleep in eroded sand castles and
sea weed
what do the birds pick up first?

and all the things i forget
are amended
and made into magnets in the sky
pulling metal ghosts from
out of television sets
so they cant haunt homes
anymore