Night’s wingspan, wide as moon,
stretches toward the horizon.
Your ghost is an unkindness

of ravens contained like a photograph
moody with shadow. Your ghost
is an ancient tree  

with nests of hair that flame

white hibiscus, the flowers still bloom

the garden with light.

Each fall I eat the flowered flame
to forget you, petal by petal,
eat it down to its grief

o doomed lover
hold your face up to the sky
until it becomes the sky

Published in Folly