Through the long grass came a Ghost

Through the long grass came a Ghost


Crowded at my window tonight, your ghosts will have nothing to speak of but love.
 
Tough the long grass leading to my door is parted, not by you leaving or by you coming here. The same ghost keeps in with my blood, the way
a small name says itself, over and over, one minute it is cavernous to the next, and I cannot locate words enough to tell you your wrist.

On my breast had the same two sounds to it you are a sky over narrow water and the ghosts at my window are a full day until I shed their loss I want to tell you all their bones-white, straight-line prophecies but the thought of you, this and every night.

Is your veins in silverpoint mapped on my skin, your life on mine,
that I made up and lived inside, as real and I find I cannot speak of love
or any of its wind-torn ghosts to you who promised warm sheets and a candle, lit, but promised me in words.


By nutbuster