A ghost lies still spilled on the floor
shining like I had imagined soft breathing-
a light enshrouded by my trembling regret,
pulling my chest to the floor.
Its smile is the imagined warmth
made heavier by truth,
made into purposelessness,
into awkward levity.
There is no promise,
as perhaps a promise requires some merciless constraint-
and things are just what they are,
and surely the nature of man is further want-
but man admonishes a night’s rain,
and flees from it.
and the solemnity I feel in a midnight downpour
doesn’t bring the light
of that poor ghost, spilled on the floor.