I occupy a small settlement on the lake—a lung shaped house of stucco & asphalt. Here, bird halos lean outward early acidic stars, the sky’s skull-yellow surface. Very alone. I listen as your touch & untouch go blank.
Krishnamurti said when the one you love goes, a part of you follows. Typewritten gnats spill greasy birdseed tunnels. For a moment there are two worlds. Spring presses toward me through glass; my garden hallway, a clutter of moths in milky silt. Crocus unpin your breastbone. In all eventual acts, humans compose ghost.