I’ve been unraveled by
the numb moon singing
its silence, waver of yellow
strung through thin clouds,
a chorded throat of open light.

If I used to be a ribbon
I’m lost now as thread, sheen
of red fray and riven skein
grazing your arm but
you can’t quite see the filament.

I’m the shiver the spider
leaves behind, the sorrow
afraid of your door, hovered
and lost, just outside
your window.

I am the skyclad tree, blushed
apple, dry rattle of gone mint
brittle underfoot. I am the wind
and the voices inside the wind,

the chill creeping through
the soft blond down along
your slender arm, leaving
a trail of goosebumps and
the hammer of a startled heart.

Ghost of a ghost, I flit
and flee, lift and flight,
trace cruel faces on
your frosted panes
and turn your butter sour.

I’m watching you
how the rain watches:
gray and even, enough patter
to let you know I’m there.

If you see my outline,
it’s only by lunar shift,
caught and carried by
wind-thrust leaves,

long after I’ve gone
and far too late
to say good-bye.