It is always where I am, this leaning towards the ghost, this empty urgency despite every evidence. Stuck in the stories of the weight of winter as it settles, that chill of drifting years suddenly gaining purchase in my skin. Trapped in the mistake that telling is ever anything given away. Earlier today I claimed I had the hands of a poet. I'm not sure whether I even get the joke.
Sometimes it is the god of the evening news, sometimes it is the god of trees and fevers, pressing through the fabric, possessing common words. The spirit only evident in these deceitful leavings. The ghost only the fearful beauty of the gone already. The kiss that is recorded becomes the kiss on other lips. Memory another invocation, the spell whatever letters are left.
I exist despite my bad grammar and calamitous habits. I exist even though scarce evidence remains to explain. Holding onto the beautiful ache of this crowded lonesome, lingering in the world of disavowal and recitation. I follow the course of the confounded witness. I follow the way of the cranky old man, bitter and resigned to smoke and spit and seethe. Blessed despite the better angels of my nature, I follow the mystery as it fades.
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