A p p a r i t i o n s
 
I think maybe you can see me
In the blue-black of 3 A.M.
Ghosting up your shipwrecked house,
Flying in my licorice red gown.

I cannot touch your face
For fear of falling through
The grey weather of your empty rooms,
The silences of trees,
Their smoky breath
Against the sodium breeze.

I cannot speak to you
Without you hearing
Bees trapped in a ghost's throat.

I think maybe you can see me
Ghosting up your shipwrecked house,

Yes,
An emptiness in your artificial irises,
A tremor in your platinum gloved fingers
Hastily moving moon rock chess pieces
Against your hologram opponent.

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