It’s been said 

By the insignificant black bird that 

Flies through these pages

(Landing with a clumsy limp

Leaving only inky footprints 

Wispy as dew

And just as smudged)

That a ghost is nothing more than 

The remnants of desire 

Left behind, once the 

Physical being dissipates

And its memory abstains from 

Dancing any further

In broken beams of light (particle

Or wave,

Or both) and 

Wouldn’t you know it,

The birdsong breath of dawn

Recites just this tune right before

the shadows of flight departs

Across the concrete, grass and water

And 

With whirl of wing, hollow-boned and serious,

Mimicking clouds, fine specks of dust and 

Tortuous smoke

Raising ruckus 

Frames the boney sickle moon.

This mention of birds

Seems nothing more than a

Mouth full of silence spit

As if mirrors held any meaning.

There’s no energy there in that

Cold gleam of polished, heated sand,

Nevertheless, you reply

Nevertheless, you exist

Nevertheless, you exit,

You persist

As if 

Persistence were not a construct of

The future, as if existence were not

A construct of the past

Where visitors come and go,

The husk of dusk shed like dusty coats,

As if you’ll age

As if the sun cares

That you ever crawled. 

You can’t forget by trying,

And you don’t make the devil

Less real when you don’t believe.

You send greetings to the darkness, hoping for an echo back.

In the silence there is too much

And in the darkness there is a promise

Yet to be filled.  

You measure out that which can be measured,

And you decide not to question the rest.