loss

 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.