Awake at 4:00am
learning what the ghost in the piano
already knows – everyone rational
is asleep, hugged tight in their dreams,
safely enclosed in the samsonite
of contemporary being.
I, who am seeking the friable sands
needs more than the flow of its free-running,
more than the surge of a tide in an estuary
The ghost plays a chord, a slow
harmony of notes rising – sweet notes
that strike echoes in memory. You will
not sleep the same sleep with the dead,
he says, while the sand is still running.
Now go, scribe your words.
© 22 may 2007, I.D. Carswell