Ghost of Earth ©

Coasting

November 2, 2015 Poems, Word

Riding waves
into the heavy fog
that shrouds now
a room.
Like Tom’s, or Bill’s.
Or whatever-the-fuck
his plain name is.
That place you liked
back home
with the
sloppy meatloaf
and slow folks.
That’s where we are now.
Twin tables
for one.

Was it this night or last
that the moon
bit its thumb?
Spit it out a
splintered
piece of itself.
Is it ever whole?

I sit sideways
drawing on old drags.
Mind for some breath
of you
some proof you
breathe
the staleness
that fits here
like a zero.

Maybe it only fits me.
Maybe you it suffocates.

I can’t tell from
our placid gazes
past each other
to other rooms.
Rooms we return to
tongue-tied,
tried, true.
Suspended in air
like
little
meteorites.

I steal away
like an old dog
and die off
because
I don’t want you
to see
or grieve.
or be anything
close.
I’ll ghost
here
until
so clears
our clouded coast.

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