The poor apparitions. It would be easier
if they ceased to care and took their nowhere
as the end of being here. Substanceless,
forgetful, they miss what has come to pass,
and nothing remains of them but pranks?
They dull cold mirrors; barely sway candle flames;
on anniversaries appear in dreams;
in thin involvements bumble under glass,
or, unnoticed, they wreath wraith the places where
Spring happens. Berries darken in the hedge;
on warmed eggs, birds bustle and nudge;
and they stay outside the misted windows
where the living, curved each to each, embrace,
tongue to tongue transfuse and burn like flowers.