Where will you go when it’s all over, because
the starts in your galaxy are all askew?
Will you fly north, only to return to see
your rooftops removed?
There’s a ghost that rides its bike in the
tennis courts at night. I shine
my useless flashlight on it, and only
illuminate the wheels. I left my phone at home.
I am afraid.
These are times of stupor, as we sit up
in our painted trees and wonder if there
will be flowers in the spring.
There’s a ghost that rides its bike,
like a hummingbird with a compass. The
hummingbird is a compass, a warrior litmus,
rings around the planet.
Where will you go when you’re all over?
I walk the dog at night. My god she’s beautiful, a
face full of scars, eyes full of stars.
I am not afraid.
