I am not a poet today, but a ghost.

These are nervous hands that open walls and
create cracks in their foundation:
I apologize, I will use the wood to build your child a treehouse
where he can create a reservoir of his girls’ perfumes
or the happy moments in your unhappy divorce.

If he jumps, I will catch him.
He thinks he is a friend of the wind but I am just a girl
who hates violet bruises but loves pink rogue
nevermind my translucent effigy, he is picked like an apple

saved from garments that bleed if dropped.
I will catch your little man and remember how you wanted to
catch me. A lessening song,
he comes rushing to you, “Father, father.”  
Just like you, a story-teller, “some kind of breeze saved me.”

I am not a poet, but a phantom.
But, no, there is nothing between you and I.
The dead are dead and you and yours are alive.