The wasp's paper nest hung all winter. Sun, angled in low and oblique, Backlit—with cold fever—the dull lantern. Emptied, the dangled nest drew him: Gray. Translucent. At times an heirloom Of glare, paper white as burning ash. Neither destination nor charm, the nest Possessed a gravity, lured him, nonetheless, And he returned to behold the useless globe Eclipse, wane and wax. He returned, A restless ghost in a house the wind owns, And the wind went right through him.
One morning the spirit of my lover’s uncle returned there was no fanfare no terror only a blue silhouette translucent above our bed growing dim I was the sole witness to this specter quiet as the rising sun waking overhead I awakened cold to see an Aegean blue figure hovering bedside through his gaze and mustachioed grin on the other side of his face a dazzling tremolo of morning light streamed into this darkened space and later that evening as we moved through the neighborhood streets dead with aging trees frozen sidewalks led us freely into the moonlight ahead