Trespass By Lynda LaRocca He was here, eyes reflected in the midnight kitchen window. But those are my eyes, his eyes that he gave to me, that blinked and I was born. On a peg in the hallway for 20 years, I hang his sweater, heavy with dust. The photographs I burned, but I still see him, I can smell him. And the moaning, when I hear it now just means that upstairs somebody is dreaming, maybe someone’s cold. [InContentAdTwo]