We grew in camps, the ghosts and I,
Like Queen Anne’s Lace, like purple thistle,
Climbed ruined stairways, solid as dreams,
Our unflinty eyes exploring, imploring.

There was futility in our swagger,
Impossible to distinguish purpose from pose,
No light so bright
It could reveal the soul of darkness

Rye grows in salted fields, but not well.
And so we grew to love life, but not too well.
Days follow days;
We imagine slights and victories to ponder.

Did you summon revolutions for your diversion?
A cure for the tedium of holding back?
That ponderous guilt is no substitute for passion.
We only need to breathe, only to love,
The ghosts and I.