Foggy
I loved you once because you were a ghost,
Or I was—who cares which? You did not scare
Me, yet I frightened you. At least I boast
Within my ribcage that the spectral flare
Of whispering love produced subconcscious fear
In your left lung—fear that I adored you
Or . . . that you were prone to worship me. Cheer
Is seldom part of such a wavering blue
Arrangement. Hauntings, whichever way they
Flow, never lend themselves to joy. At best
They cause a flickering ecstasy. The way
Of ghosts is searching, hereafter, for rest.
We move like swans in black night river scenes.
One, singing his last lyrics, mutely keens.