Acoustic ghost
pulses under purple light,
white wisteria drips

like grape clusters hung
off fake forest vines. We
clap when the song-

writer beckons, his shadow
rocking in time behind him.
The setting sun adds golden

rows through the concert hall
windows—more notes
folded into a twelve-string

chord for the spirits to take
form. We stir and lean forward
as the conjuring commences.