I don’t speak 
I simply say
those very things 
that you thought 
which I read
on your face 
what you couldn’t 
say when you 
tried to speak 
and it’s this 
that makes us 
the very we

And hearing this 
I remember one 
very little thing 
those three words 
what is that 
and like a 
cool breeze on
a hot August 
afternoon on some 
hill we found 
and under a 
tree that’s been 
there for years 
I showed you 
what that is 

Now it’s not 
even you but
the memory of
and the hope
for that does
for the you
who is isn’t 
and I’m left
with before later 
at long last 
but never now 

One might think 
that after so
many I’d stop
but this lust 
it carries me 
forward be my
search for morsels
or mushrooms or 
morals hidden below 
beneath or behind 
dig and rut
ruthlessly I do 
nails now ground 
down to fingers
and these very 
things never found 
perhaps never been 
except in mind 
such are ghosts 

It’s worse
when sleep 
doesn’t rest
but churns
like hoes 
unearthing rocks 
bringing same
to surface 
making visible 
in clouds 
of dreams 
but clouds 
can’t carry 
rocks weight 
and down 
they come 
as hail 
pounding the 
tin roof 
of sleep