Mute Ghost of Your Grandfather
Michael Beard
at the road’s edge, stepping along ghost asphalt and ghost dirt,
ghost blue handkerchief in his back pocket, listening to ghost
robins twining autumn thin, the ghost-lit moon, ghost memory
of a boy who loved him, you the boy, sitting in a ghost field,
ghost rain beating into you the blue ghost of longing, how the
dead touch everything away.