Crowded at my window tonight, your ghosts
will have nothing to speak of but love
though the long grass leading to my door
is parted neither by you leaving
nor by you coming here. The same ghosts
keep in with my blood, the way
a small name says itself, over
and over, so one minute is cavernous
compared to the next, and I cannot locate
words enough to tell you your wrist
on my breast had the same two sounds to it.
You are a sky over narrow water
and the ghosts at my window
are a full day until I shed their loss.
I want to tell you all their bone-white,
but the thought of you, this and every night,
is your veins in silverpoint mapped
on my skin, your life on mine,
that I made up and lived inside, as real,
and I find I cannot speak of love
or any of its wind-torn ghosts to you
who promised warm sheets and a candle, lit,
but promised me in words.