(for Duncan)

Oh whistle and I’ll come to ye,
my lad, my wee shilpit ghost
summonsed from tomorrow.

Second sight,
a seer’s mothy flicker,
an inner sprite:

this is what I see
with eyes closed;
a keek-aboot among secrets.

If Pandora
could have scanned
her dark box,

and kept it locked—
this ghoul’s skull, punched eyes
is tiny Hope’s,

hauled silver-quick
in a net of sound,
then, for pity’s sake, lowered.