and 44 degrees and fog outside
my writing-room windows. Old ghosts, you know,
sleeping in oaks like lean gray wolves who hide
from hunters in me who hide from them. No
sleep for hunters, though, in our dark retreat
lighted only by far lace of streetlights’
longing beams, ghosts’ firefly eyes flurried fleet
as thin waterfalls within those far lights
at night, and haunting glow of this absurd
monitor before me realizing
itself reflecting my psyche in words
blinking across space. Your analyzing
them right now won’t help me. You’re here alone
touching their curled bones. I’m already gone.
Roger Armbrust
January 20, 2012
