Dragonflies and hummingbirds occasionally
Ascended to my sixth floor balcony, inquisitively,
Humming, “half the poems I compose now
Are ghosts. I’m so haunted, if I were a house,
I’d be hosting guided tours for the credulous.”
No, really, you must believe me. That’s what
Their wings sang, making their little cuts,
Their myriad little cuts to suspend themselves
And rise through the dusty, sultry air. Oh well,
You don’t believe me. You wouldn’t. My license
For poetry has expired. There’s no sense
In indulging a fantasist who crouched nightly
On his high balcony, waiting for sprightly
Visitors he could pretend were ghosts or angels
Come to visit him, colorful as tinkling bells.
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