ghost

at my elbow

is a ghost,

that likes to hear me play

the piano. I suppose

he likes to hear the black keys

most. that sound

sleek and dark as they look.

when I open the blinds

in the morning, he delights

in the condensation,

where our breath

has mingled with the room

and become a part of it,

and he doesn’t mind the

searching light of the sunrise,

like a spirit with a flashlight.

he joins me in the shower,

and as I brown the toast, until

I slip my shoes on and

take leave of the house.

then I am alone.

.

I notice every living thing,

the geese who fly

like they’ve been strung

like ornaments together,

the weaving spiders and

frosted grass. life, my breath

in the air,

my quickening pace,

my memories like flapping

post its. alive and impermanent,

visiting, wandering.

digging my shoes into the earth.

he doesn’t know this part of me

that is free and light,

sampling all of this

noise and beauty;

.

but then i return home, and

we are almost the same.