Ghost

I had it once, not long ago—

a thought that stayed.

What if I’m dead already, and this

is what is left?

Not anything grand. No tunnel,

no voice. Just this:

a city I arrived in years ago

and never quite believed.

Perhaps it happened then—

that bridge, the drop I never took.

Or did, and made of falling

this long arrangement.

The plane to Houston:

some last, practical invention,

mind tidying up the fact

of having ended.

And this—these days, this light,

the rooms, the work, the streets—

not heaven, not even close,

but something like its waiting room.

It would explain the flatness of it,

how nothing quite attaches,

how even joy comes filtered,

as if through glass.

Still, I go on as though it matters,

buy things, answer calls,

watch evening come down slowly

over borrowed time.

If this is death, it isn’t worse

than what I knew before—

just quieter, and harder

to disprove.