(for Marissa Amador)
Despite its death, the dead idea remains.
It lingers, groaning spirit of the night,
and dares to trouble all the living brains
who saw it as a flash of vital light.
Dead things live on in dreams, assured they’re right
to stake out new and comfy territory.
The fill the dreamer with a sense of fright.
This victory at last to them is glory.
Since this is not a dream, I’ll leave the story
to tell itself, as all the best tales do.
I won’t squeeze into any category
the brooding ghost that now remains with you.
In a grave, I am told, that notion lies.
From graves, though, such conceptions tend to rise.