Aubade My ghosts line up, mouths full of bitter  greens and sweet grasses,  names chalked on the walls                                      of ruined buildings, the night smelling of their breath.  One wears a split lip,  saxophone-blown. Sometimes he calls                  in sick. I am not your splendid harness. Don’t wait up. What is sleep anyway.  Barnyard animals, goats…

  Tiny words, real but illegible.  The dog finds a small dead body and nuzzles it with her nose.  Sometimes the petals of moon flowers tear as they open.  A linguistic change is called a juncture loss.  And here you’ll have to use your imagination because I’m not sure.  Back then we grew mock orange…