Charles Wright

as the train rolls
through i remember
an old poem

Well, here we are again, old friend, Ancient of Days,
Eyeball to eyeball.
I blink, of course,
I blink more than ten thousand times.

Dear ghost, I picture you thus, eventually like
St. Francis in his hair shirt,
naked, walking the winter woods,
Singing his own song in the tongue of the troubadours.