everything is full of ghosts.
they are dead on replay, they rise
out of a song lyric
a water bottle
some chairs at night.
one specter awakens and calls up all the others,
their bones rattle as they write
words with their fingers and tongues
times when you wouldn’t be forgotten outside in the cold
quiet art galleries
being asked to dinner
really white sheets and A team
you’d have people to sit with at the show
though these are all good things
they sting as all broken promises do. So I commune with these spirits,
tired of avoiding these commonplace terrors,
wait for those to come forth that calm the others
the peaceful, quieter, subtle loves
the stories that did not end in heart-wrenching shame
they come close and silence the ghosts which say
life will never be any better than failure.