It's rich irony then that I feel like a ghost
alive, haunting every hang of time
asking, if is this all there is
the bruise of the moment
the body sinking down
anchoring absolutely
nothing but me
this is a story I actually don't want to tell
I'd rather retract into porous sleep
or silence--providently waiting
just past the gate the miracle
or watching and loving
all I ever had to do
was show up_________________________
Pic: I could barely believe that the orange balls in the dirt were pumpkins... Where are the vines? Why am I such a city bumpkin?
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