ghosts lost have
an aversion

to mirrors
no reflecting

on things
can’t sit still

with music
untenable as

the songs of
sparrows

or the howl
of a house

engulfed
in fire on

a frozen
winter night

An ardent young
woman captive

in a suburban
basement, now

reported missing
but I’m here

though you don’t
see me, no matter

how loudly I bark                                      
your real name,

sing your secret
needs, or tear

the scab off your
stifled yearning

while you sleep—
I am the obscured

object of your
aching night,

the blackest hole
in your desire.

Not the knife’s
butcher drunk
in the walk-

in cooler, nor
the finger-
printless gun

in the church
pew next to
a sleepy

hymnal, she
confesses, if
you want to

**** a thing,
strangle its
tender pink

throat—just
give it to
academia.

The room,
bone white,

painted
freshly,

the clear
glass of

water—
reflected

in the small
oval

mirror
—sitting

on the
well worn

seat of
a chair,

vivid,
illuminating

after-
noon sun.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

Trudging with
groceries, an
elderly man.

Dim blue glow,
a clock—what
this long in-

complete life
sees in the
wondering dark.

Death, so close
to the mail-
box at noon.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

There isn’t a
single

soul on
any of

these dark
deserted

streets,
in these

sleeping
homes, in this

barren
parking lot,

in these
abandoned

stores in
a failed

mall, in
these lifeless

restaurants, and
I don’t know

where I
am or how

to locate
myself on

this dank moon-
less night.

Like a constipated
mule, the old man
limps toward me

saying, The end is
near—the words
falling from his mouth              

like congealed bacon
fat, then the young
woman emerges from

the churning sea—her
auburn hair, alabaster,
almost translucent

naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting
a long shadow—The

world ended long
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the

emerald green great
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean

sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the
tower—figures falling

from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies

smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your

classroom is on the
sixth floor, and as I
open the heavy door

she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds

Please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.