Ghost Story

You, the ghost
and me, the sheet.
Chatting in this flapping
wind of winter,
can you guess why I make
all the noise
and you look less like smoke
each moment?

It's the danger of becoming
as we are
along with everything
else.

Lost.

Your eyes have always been
louder than your voice. They echo
through the night
like the candles you fed
with clumps of your hair--
offerings the wind wouldn't take
until we sat
inside that pungent cloud of your hatred
and made small talk
serve as prayer.



by jerry gordon