Ghosts Get Haunted, Too

Step out into a day
That could still be called night
On this moonlit morning

In the desert suburbs
Under great, sailing clouds
Just an hour before dawn—

On a street without lamps
Along which neighbors sleep
At least until sunrise,

There’s little glare to wash
Away the moon and stars,
The glow of cloud galleons,

And the air holds the damp
Of slight overnight rain
Aided by lawn sprinklers

Whispering here and there,
While cool back-porch concrete
Feels smooth under bare soles.

Now what? There’s no catching
This in a cup. This scent
Of wet, overgrown grass

Mixed with that damp sand smell
Of spring desert, this moon
Over the silver leaves

Of the massive shade trees,
That cloud armada blown
By the wind through the stars—

Even those who notice
Won’t remember this well
And are human, one kind

Of beast among all these,
The moony bugs and moths,
The black cat on the wall,

The birds getting ready
Already for sunrise—
None expostulating

On the soft, exquisite
Loveliness of it all—
Ghost that haunts these words’ ghosts.