Tuesday, October 6, 2015

OUTLINE

First—
let us imagine 

your ghost—
but at noon. 

Displaced though it
may be
from its main gig—is not this old blighted sheet 

finally free? as gossamer—to reach and to touch,
with weightless impressions of fingers,
all the enticing brightness it sees

without corrupting 
so much as a living atom of stuff
with the corporeal pressure of intention?

Less than a whisper,
more a great legend,
a true hero—a non-thing that influences no one;

enveloped in its stainless mission 
to wander
forever 

lost—
and safe 
in perpetuity

and flapping not 
after such hot and cold running things
as riches

or the heavy 
opaque trappings 
of pure poverty—hoping only perhaps for a little more 

purity of spirit, if we
can even call it that at this point, but
you get the idea.

Second—

instead of—why didn't I
think of that?

How would it be
if you just sat

down—and thought 
of it now?

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