…

the ghost is a strobe
light like smoke

robed like a sunday
stones in your pocket

space in your mouth
gaps between nebulae

say what you meantime
uttering moons

down under earthen
where is a weather map

muttering toast
pushing up buttercups

boohoo blue boy
soy milk moobies

cows somehow
greener pastures preen

prequels & shattered glass
gasping like gosh

washing your socks
in a rusty trough

once was a book
bursting with hymns

but these seesaws
& comatosed kisses

…