Lost in sleep’s dark river,
like a photograph of perfume.
And that’s what I liked about you:
like opium-soaked cloisonné.
If I were to be burned at the stake,
my mouth gaping to the falling rain,
you’d say, You must work harder at being lucky.
But it never rains on this desert.
On the horizon, against a knife-gray sky,
a fleet of white sails.
The ghosts departed before the funeral began.
You’d think they could have waved Goodbye.
Appeared in Right Hand Pointing, Issue 109, 2017