Writing a love letter to a ghost
tasting hymns and kerosene
and the scent of vacant chairs.
“Love’s refrain.”
Listening to the dormouse
in a seance with a Ouija
quoting the scriptures
forgetting that the dead
are just dead.
And I am just alive
bleeding poems
into the night
with the ghosts of poets
who never got it right.
That’s what I get with insomnia
tasting hymns and kerosene
and the scent of vacant chairs
“Love’s refrain”







