I keep hearing that sound, loud and growing in the distance, a train.And it comes closer, scooching in, crunching down, rounding the corners, shifting gears.
But it’s not you .
It’s a ghost.
A whippoorwill.
A mockingbird, laughing.
And then you're here,
and
"You're face was priceless, a question mark floating in the air" they said,
And I'm a sudden smoke ring,
hazy butterfly in the dim lights,
wriggling ,
itching,
squirming
making circles
out of
figure eights,
and
disappearing
because I had to...
a ghost,
a whippoorwill,
a mockingbird mourning....
a yellow butterfly in the mirror....
