Gone is the ghost stuck in the blinds,
gone are the hands that knew the song,
gone is the hungry tumble
bright and screeching birds
made of this muttering gutter
frightened by the feet
lost so far from the green trail.
There is a black sinking
that rises from this heart
choked on distance and letters
and feathers never worn on wings,
gray skinned and smiling
daggers and bayonets at
the horizon glutted, force fed
the unsettling need of the sun.
The ghost is gone, wandering
the glazed eyes and sore throats
lost in the maze of songs and voices--
the moment where all wonder is emptied,
kissed blue murder dead.
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