GHOSTS
Ghosts is my horizon
it cloisters around me like
fumed weaponry,
holding firmly to me by
brain and brands-named laughter.
It does not get a lot worse
than this
to allow my feet and fingers to
trip merrily along
the ghost-writing of pasts
and future if only a breath-
taking words away.
Your fumed words
do nothing to me
they just allow me
a separateness from the rule
of mankind. It is about working the
words into shape like balls
of wool in winter
allowing the use of it
to make the sweater I need
for you are coldest at night
when I think of you
in your corset and corsage
for one who isn’t
me.
