The ghosts of the house have supplanted me.
I don’t want to dream anymore.
All plants have souls: Socrates.
He picked his own poison: hemlock.
The chalice clung frozen to his lies
but he was not fearful of fate he didn’t prescribe to hungry crowds.
Their ears rang bells echoing across the empty Acropolis twelve interminable days.
No resurrection then.
Who would coax them to the other side of mythology?
So tired and parched, you should lie down, face up, in the still-pristine snow and drink cerulean.
I didn’t mean to pretend to be incredulous, dubious, misguided, dangerous—make the locals stare.
My father visited from the dead last night—
bequeathed a golden-angel kite with one useless, folded wing
but she alighted from opalescent string far beyond the skies protracting.
Now I know things.
Now I am alive.