When the ghosts descend blindly
to feast on our living earth
what they leave behind
by mid-morning burns off, turns
to a white shiver the width
of a finger following the Braille
of our spines. No, that's not quite it:
river spirits can't read the mute wails
of our skin the way we can
and translate it into the ribbony mist
of comprehension. They'd need hands
to unravel the brittle air that twists
wildly in weak sun across the bay.
See what I see, they try and try to say.