Ignis Fatuus

          Something or someone. A feeling among a swish of reeds. A swampy glow haloes the Spanish moss, & there's a swaying at the edge like a child's memory of abuse growing flesh, living on what a screech owl recalls. Nothing but a presence that fills up the mind, a replenished body singing its way into doubletalk. In the city, Will o'the Whisp floats out of Miles' trumpet, leaning ghosts against nighttime's backdrop of neon. A foolish fire can also start this way: before you slide the key into the lock & half-turn the knob, you know someone has snuck into your life. A high window, a corner of sky spies on upturned drawers of underwear & unanswered letters, on a tin box of luminous buttons & subway tokens, on books, magazines, & clothes flung to the studio's floor, his sweat lingering in the air. Years ago, you followed someone here, in love with breath kissing the nape of your neck, back when it was easy to be at least two places at once.