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?
