Dear ghost, when you accept 

this handmade world. When everything

can be true. When dear ghost, 

dear ghost, dear ghost. When I made 

my first apology to the river 

and a voice was struggling. 

When the fig trees become the nectary 

becomes the flood-wrack urgency

of spring. This is moving backward. 

The way a four-legged animal can flicker 

like a lantern between one realm 

and the next. On each side the hum 

of a lightened field. Dear ghost not yet.