Ghost in Search of a Grave


Another bed to be buried in,
whenever I end whatever we
began when the feelings would begin,
as though I had to show we had no
chance of going through with this, as if

it was just pretense falsifying
boned oracles ossifying breaks
from fractured intentions hell-bent on
becoming what parting of ways I
must have meant as my feigned affection’s

hidden meaning, that what was meant to
happen was living in the wreckage
of the future, neither athletic
nor romantic, marathon maker
of myth making bank bookmaking debts


with what of each other we believed
with which parts we would make off better,
more banter then prayer than together,
and how, now, winnowing from shallows
its ends of ripples bending embrace

around intents promises drowned when
questioned by our bitter judgment, sent
as though destined to be foraged for
some sentiment neither out of depth
or desperate could ever manage

to collect, how, now, more determined
than before to swallow regret and
repurpose what withheld words we, though
separated, at once vomit, hymns
from aphorisms construct it, this blend


of bets hedged against the house we held
onto only to prove how intense
haunting that mausoleum to lost
happiness was a power move, most
settle for what tomb those who survive

them choose, how shrewd, then, was I to lie
not for a long time but alongside
one so brave, ghosts in search of a grave
mistake taking breath for taking vows
when taking its toll was playing this

miserable role’s only noble
objective, more selective shall mine
be when seeking rest my shade next meets
a new being by love to deceive,
for so freeing is belief in change.