You’re turning up again.
Sitting above me in a chrome chair
while I’m on the floor
with another woman.
What are you doing here?
Reminding me I’m married
and it’s not even to you.
Why have you gone gray?
And why, when I saw you last,
were you resigned to such sad work?
In that dream, you had to cut the dancers
as you sculpted them.
They were naked
on a cold beach.
Gray sky, gray water, cool light sand,
and pale bodies.
A rush of wind, your artist’s tool,
a flash of bright warm blood.
Only now in this afterlife of dreaming
are you unveiled.
Ghosts aren’t white.
They’re not glowing.
They can give counsel,
just can’t spend money or touch.
What we were, when we were alive together,
is dust.
