Someone waits at my door. Because he is
dead he has time but I have my secrets——
this is what separates us from the dead.
See， I could order take-out or climb down
the fire escape， so it's not as though he
is keeping me from anything I need.
While this may sound like something I made up，
it is not； I have forgotten how to
lie， despite all my capable teachers.
Lies are， in this way， I think， like music
and all is the same without them as with.
The fluid sky retains regret， then bursts.
He is still there， standing in the hall， insisting
he is someone I once knew and wanted，
come laden with gifts he cannot return.
If I open the door he'll flash and fade
like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds
one summer night at the edge of the world.