As a ghost, I explore concrete — cities mostly
where I blend with smoke, and smoke cigarettes
(nothing to lose; I am ephemeral).
Selfies only other ghosts can see — I take them
of myself with marble statues, terrazzo floors,
porcelain vases. I envy the edges of things:
corners of buildings, facial features, drops of rain.
Every chance I get, I step in a mud puddle, hoping
I will acquire some identifying feature, become
more than a spiral of wind, an ominous feeling.
My thoughts are the most solid thing about me.
I can pass them on to crowds, and no one knows
where they came from.
As a ghost, I remember my past lives, with no
means of explaining. I am Imagination, that’s
as close as I get to having a name. If I envelop you
as I sometimes do in dreams, don’t be afraid.
If you have an extra scarf or sweater, leave it
on the sidewalk. The halls of Memory are chilly.
When you’re a ghost, you’ll understand:
we represent the veil, the other side, the afterlife.
As a ghost, I miss my body. I miss my teeth,
my fingers holding a fork. I would give up
my eternity for one hour of being seen; to be
more than the chill on someone’s skin.