At night when the lights are out
And I dare to open my eyes
What I see in the half light
Is a commonplace most rare
Ghosts mingling at my bedside
Or am I going mad?
A t-shirt wrinkles to become
a cat
And yet I keep no pets.
My eyesight must be failing
As I advance in age
Or maybe I have cataracts
Whatever those may be
It took a while but nowadays
I rise to greet my guests
As specters from beyond
the grave
On reason’s moony edge—
No matter what their source
I only wish that I could give
These specters flesh and form
I’d sally from my bed
To walk among the very ghosts
—Daniel, Donnie, Tom—
I talk to in my dreams
and air
in drafty poems.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem