Someone waits at my door. Because he is
dead he has time but I have my secrets--
this is what separates us from the dead.
See, I could order take-out or climb down
the fire escape, so it's not as though he
is keeping me from anything I need.
While this may sound like something I made up,
it is not; I have forgotten how to
lie, despite all my capable teachers.
Lies are, in this way, I think, like music
and all is the same without them as with.
The fluid sky retains regret, then bursts.
He is still there, standing in the hall, insisting
he is someone I once knew and wanted,
come laden with gifts he cannot return.
If I open the door he'll flash and fade
like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds
one summer night at the edge of the world.
