Ghost Story

Stars thrown like paper planes
fall into a channel in Baja,
same pirate cove that’s taken light

and kept it hidden for no one, for
years… his chest is a cave not worth
exploring. We need to take our time

examining convex signs, search
for any omen, beware of softened
zeniths. Fingers melt into the mattress,

wrapped in arms of the one who
gives her up for fear or whim, yet keeps
the rope taught… Sheeted, she sprays

sea salt on her hair hoping the ghosts
grow mouths, tell her where
the anchors root from the mind–

dilute crossed wires. It’s not relapse,
just a revival of the shadow
squeezing lungs, tangles

of promises keeping toes planted
in sand, begging for high tide’s pull
to take away unfaithful hands…


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