Ghost

Their bloodlines run deep to the origin, they’re wind
Blowing apart their own parts, a hush while the coffin sinks slow

A murmur through your house of distant piano,
a drumming of forks in your cupboard,
Touching stones and turning up graves,
floating like a note carried over,

Sketched by a child with two peepholes,
nothing buys this idle winter crossing,
Where light meets cold.

Jason Visconti

Archived 12/31/2009