I write the voices 
of the ancients and 
of the unknown who 
speak to me of
such things that no 
one can understand of
things and of places 
of people and of
thoughts long ago forgotten 
I live amongst ghosts 
who sit quietly awaiting 
their turn to return 
to their own once 
again and then perhaps 
they will go away 
making room for more 

The lights stretch
and then stop 
at the edge 
of the world 
in this darkness 
anyway back east 
they do continue 
like the wildfires 
of the living 
but here now 
and out there 
west and beyond 
are the dead 

I have become 
already having became
that I sit
and wonder now 
if it was 
any of it
any of it 
ever really was 
is this pause
the very thing 
I’ve been awaiting 
just an ellipse 
perhaps an eclipse 
a passing by
of one thing
in front another 

I don’t know why 
the night now haunts 
it used to be 
a haven a respite 
a time of comfort 
but now it ticks
slowly by dark deep 
hard just like obsidian 
under water it seems 
this silence all around 
and even my home 
has become a stranger 

I like again
again and again 
there’s something comforting 
about once again 
like a favorite 
chair or chowder
or charm there’s 
something familiar and 
fascinating about again 
like a face
or a smile 
or maybe book
maybe again and 
once again and 
maybe over agains
are the gateways 
to something better