If This Would Die

When ghosts wear jeans, and walk
through supermarkets and streets,
have earrings, tattoos that quote
Bertrand Russell and Pearl S. Buck,
weave in and out of crowds, land
on front porches and in car parks,
graciously, kindly notice that I am
limping, keeping my eyes on the
forest, the tree line again haunting
me and my dreams, my own demons
yet dancing, the water, on swirling,
I can never recall in the moment
of you addressing me, whether I
love or don’t love, whether I like
things just the way they are or if
the timing is bad, opportunity loft,
the spherical earth arcing far off
suddenly and violently bowing out
of sight; can I not attend anywhere
that has not the taste of phantasm,
forming smoke unveiling the bodies
of lives I lived that refuse to die?
Maybe, if you and I both agree to
deny the existence of gravity and
greed, we may yet twist the tops
and un-bottle our ruminations, let
them stumble out, draw breath,
suckle the air, acquiesce, and lay
down into their graves, at last
resting, moving on, gone, etcetera,
it over and ended like red summer,
winter’s cooling hand taking mine.

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