Ghost Poem by Andrew Quin

Her face is held lightly in the
Cupped hands of a softly shining moon,

Draping thin blue sickle-shapes
Of veil to hang about her nose and cheek.

Profiled softly in the cold
And ardent appetite of night,

She tilts her head: her hair tumbles
Weightlessly from a naked shoulder,

As words are want to do when
Silence is an abstract stranger

Uninvited to the conscious void
(And mindful of presented selves.)

You look

[Don't look....]

Discerning from her shape some flaw,
Some radiated imperfection:

Alas, she has none, and despite yourself
You fall in love with her again.