The white light of a halogen lantern illuminates
the path before me. Behind me the hard

consonants of younger years: Dorcaster,
Kirkcaldy, Tockwogh. They scatter

into time's atmosphere like oak leaves tossed
by the gardener's blower. This is the here and

heartache, a season of blues. Long before
my yeasty years of reinvention,

I pricked fingers on stinging nettle. For you,
your swift swan-flight into a murky sky—

leaving the day's catch still gasping
on the sandy shore. Catfish strung on a line,

eyes blank and fixed. What if I say
joker, comedian, buffoon? If only I could

ignore the billowing cloud emblazoned
on your denim jacket. I shrug into empty

sleeves, moss-soft with wear. I wait
for punchlines and payoffs. I was lured

toward believing in your return. What stones
will I choose to cast, which will I pocket, saved

for skipping later across this blue isolation?
I am breaking secrets and truths.

I'm telling you I am the ghost here.