That unlife means “no trees”—shade knows this
well. Wraiths – caused by love or some other
headlessness – are the dead who don’t under-
stand thoughts that haunt them, rules of being
sprites, or live’s past tense: late; age or sleep.
Seriously, they only demand
pots & pans in the umbra of late-night
T.V. Ghosts only speak in tongues of
moaning. What is no? How to say leave?

O, now the world’s diets are changing.
Sleep comes formed like a husk. Once another
hunger, but a lack of animals
makes me think my favorite monster
is whatever happens. Soon enough
recipes, scarce songs, leave me wanting
seeds or perhaps beans. I’m beginning
to believe I am vegetation—
to fill out whole like some kind of tree.

Night last happened in 1998, the herbs of which
were all homespun constellations—the
Milky Way a giant sash for evening
to wear. I slept through the moonsong & much
of the crops across the fields which call
to sunlight with throats full of germ &
stardust; dead-eyed or night-blind. As for
slumber, I am certain it exists
in horoscopes. Or dreams sometimes.

Now the day heads towards the spirits
of the flies. & sleep is a meander
to retrieve other words for lover
or search out more seekers for coffins,
adventure, & adjacent verbs to lose
aside sinners & synonyms. Next terms,
borders: lines to alight; direction:
some information shared with a crow.
But, ramblers always go someplace, right?