The fog plays its horn section
over the woodwinds.
A ghost emerges wearing only
my memories.
She wraps a moonbeam
shawl around her shoulders.
She traces my body
with murder scene chalk.
Against my will
I cry myself out of sleep.
My hands reach out
to pull her close.
The fog plays its horn section
over the woodwinds.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
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