Ghosts


Something moves the reeds, 
nudges your shirt off the porch rail. 

A black bird on the pier. 
I think of telling you. 
It's gone. 

I feel your hand on my back 
and expecting your face at my shoulder, 
I turn my head. 

I have never been to this inlet before, 
but I have seen this water.


September 9, 2001