To write, to shake the scenery of our mighty ghosts,
they shake us breathing,
they shape us seathing with the sap of the empty soul.
That easy dawn of thought the morning is not ours,
but the ten thousand birds singing in the tree
as they suckle on our souls.
The sea slips about our necks even as it glistens
in the second descent of the sun.
The trees, like toxic needles swift the smells that tackle us into the mud.
The mud, dense with the sound of the mad men,
making the tense more tense,
masking the fear in the old man's hospital bed.
These are the leaden dreams of the moving mud.
When our phantom begs us to dissolve
we whisper to it, no, not yet, we're not ready for you
as if it moved our ghosts to let us breathe.