Nobody sees my ghost,
hanging on the telephone line of culture,
mumbling at nightmares, chortling to dreams.

Her roots sink down into time; tubers and stones.
Her branches rise up into space; flowers and birds.

Nobody hears my ghost, hanging in the howling wind of news;
her gaze ardently following lovers, recoiling from wars.
Her fingers stretch out to greet each child and creature;
deeply reading the braille of every living book.

Her feet never find the earth;
natural citizens of the deepest sky.

My ghost receives the Nobody who finds her.
Loves him with mad abandon.
Endlessly embracing his shapeless shape.

Her legs coil around his whisper;
her eyes encompass his timelit gaze.