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| Photo by Artur Mordvinov form PxHere |
If I were to see you again,
walking across the little
country road on your way
to the neighbor’s farm
to buy your milk, if I saw
you there, ghostly pale
in the pre-dawn,
what would I say, now
after all these years?
The guy who killed you
died by careful suicide
because his woman cheated
on him and he wanted
to leave a beautiful corpse.
So I’ve been told.
I imagine the theatrical
courtroom like something
from a TV drama, young
lawyers braying, gray judge
leaning on the bench.
All ghosts now,
the living and the dead.
If I could call you back
to substance, reframe you
from this vague dream,
where would you ride?
Would you wander off
into the remaining woods,
your black dogs come back
darting around your heels in joy?
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