Friday night at the Ghostery on Relentable Drive,
and a whirl of leaves blew in,
took my vaguely personal shape.
like to do their ghosting,
whispering and wispy pale,
but I don’t play that game,
I’m as solid as a memory
of a memory.
A translucent stranger glowed nearby,
with a nimbus and a greater unifying theory.
My unwritten cache was empty,
so I mentioned a mélange of leaves
and people I would rather be.
She told me she was a traveler
from an antique store beyond Orion’s Belt,
and spoke of suburbs I had never visited,
of twenty first century metrics,
of the floral compass of our thoughts,
of Pompeiians and Atlanteans,
their inverse inconvenience,
and said that she could play the lyre
like a lyrebird.
And what of you?
I remember guileless and plotless days
when every sunfall showered
when everyone was harlequins, and edible crayons
filled up all my carefree line-drawn pages
when all I saw was bones and x-rayed flesh,
disintegrating radium emanations
and I never finished a sentence or a verse
or analyzed my incoherence
Now living is a song that I don’t like,
with unimpressive grey-scale lyrics
and thistle flowers for dinner,
a compendium of rocks and fish—
twelve metamorphic pages and a tail fin so far.
When the Ghostery moved on,
she took me to Nocturnia,
the museum of abandonment,
where autoluminous trilobites
and pearly ruinations were inlaid
in the marble floor and columned walls.
It was later than it had been,
and I lived so far away whenever I was lost.
I told the traveler I would spend the night’s remains
in any cozy alcove.
I must sleep beneath a covering:
an obsession, I’m afraid,
also not to blow away.
I found some esoterica disassembled in a corner,
a blanketing of bolts and broken pottery,
I’m wondering, in the daylight, would you
consider haunting my apartment?
Good night, she said, and wished me
nightscape with milk thistle (part above)