New Tenant at the Haunted Squat

When the door opens
she confronts him: insists on staying.
Begs to be seen as the red-heart of reason.
Her skin glows like rainwater in streetlights
against the cracked window behind her.
Which leads him to assume
she exists
only as a damp-stained
figure, on the living-room wall.

Andrea Bowd

If you have any thoughts on this poem, 
Andrea Bowd would be pleased to hear them.