The angels just might be here.
They might incline and motion me
towards paradise - the gracious witness
of tranquility's conflagration.

But I swear, if at this moment
you walk by, with that longing
that shapes the curve of your hips,
and that thrilling stillness on your

tongue, ******* and lips,
I would pivot on a cheap dime
and wag after you, even if my arousal
is a disgust, while you labor
          to comfort your concerns.

And if the angels counsel -
"Ghost, ghost, ghost," I swear again
that I would dictate a new divinity
in which ghosts and the gods

worship through the senseless hunger,
adorned by the irresolvable hope
that my hips and your hips, my tongue
and your tongue, my eyes seeing

your eyes can actually come together
in the indecipherable union,
and be greater than all
that will ever be.

Folly - unless it is true.
The best reason I have
for remaining such a diseased
and frantic ghost.