From the Song of a Fog Born Ghost
It is morning
and I am in the middle room
of our City Shotgun
Where the bullets are kept
in the darkest chamber
I am not letting
more light in —just leaving
the inch wide glow
from the window
where the curtains
don’t meet
I leave off the electricity
keeping it dimly lit
It is the way
I think a
poem requires
to enter
unsuspecting
of the giant bear trap
waiting between
my pen nib and paper
So I wait for a poem
to slip in close
on the back
of a shadow thought
or with its ankles caught in
the vibratory trill
from the song
of a fog born ghost
sailing on a floating leaf
in the lagoon
of lost loves
as she combs
her long hair
with fingers spread
soothing and nourishing
the world
with her beauty
I crane to hear
her voice
I fear she might hear me
for surely she listens too
knowing the Sun
will take over the day soon
She closes her eyes
and delights
in the liminal space
for her last few moments
of visibility
As do I—
Sitting in this chair
hand hewn by
an ancient craftsman
No poem yet,
but I think
I will wait here
at this table
believing there
is a feast within
where the
wood grain
outdates us all
I watch how
it maps
beneath my
hovering hand
