The Sun is a Ghost

We get dressed as ghosts with sheets taken from the bed…-The Tortoise and the Tourist, Modest Mouse

It started out as usual, on time
with a line in your back seat.
Driven to black streets, hot pavement

only found in summer, press skin
against the sun. The beat goes on,
but the tempo is missing, spine

of the rhythms–offbeat. Light
flurries make me think you’re up
there, showing you empathize

with me, with the malaise growing
on, O, why cold fronts and cold wind?
–I’ll stop, I don’t blame you. I’m the

one who creeps out into the early
morning dampness, walk through
the small town like an abandoned

movie-set without any regard for you:
some shadow that’s just a refraction,
no method… But now that the sky

has grayed, I keep checking to see
if you’ll reappear. But the sky is still
clouds, massive, full of gravity, like you…

for EC

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