In What Remains to Me of Breathing Life

I can’t accept cessation of our heads

without imagining that shreds of all they’ve held

and all we’ve been – the mesh that’s melded into mind

through the amalgamated sin and win and grind of us --

will be released from them at death – bequeathed

in some spent state, initially, of softly stark bewilderment,

but soon amassing power as their licks and flicks

and filigrees begin to flower, taking courage from their

bodilessness – learning to be ghosts: that they need not

depend upon a form to keep their curiosity

and passions warm. I can’t imagine that

our central senses won’t persist beyond

evaporating mist. Existentially we’re surely made

of stiffer consciousness than this. In what remains

to me of breathing life, I think I’ll host a panoply of ghosts –

so sure am I that ghosts must love to be invited,

even if so far they rarely have been sighted.

I don’t believe they aren’t there. I won’t address

the air without expecting them to hear. From now on,

dear, if I appear to be conversing with myself,

don’t fear. I’m simply revving into ectoplasmic gear.

.