in dreams I touch my ghosts more gently lest like kisses they come back outside of sleep gliding on the once and future ocean silently save for water slapping at the bent boards of memoried hulls but for the fitful snapping of canvas lulled in forgotten breezes ghost sounds hidden from all but the watcher restless and unconsoled on the crushed detritus sand of times that might have continued had half the hands not moved counter to hopes and expectations