sometimes in the wee hours of
the morning when everyone is
asleep and i am awake it
seems as if they are alive
and i am dead, a ghost

listening to the soft voice
of the moon in the dark
and the soft crinkling of
the paper cut-out stars.
fog forms on the window
an empty bridge stretching
out to a lighthouse that must be there

somewhere

lines are being rehearsed backstage
for all long departures
"disappointed in god"
and words better left unsaid
"you found it, it's yours"
"are you crying?"
"it's only water"

there is a window reaching out into
the far that is farther than the sound
of flutes and images
in a sky serving up a
candlelit dinner

i can see you
getting smaller
and smaller under the sky
that presses down from above
showing us all its true color