He’s asking today for the tangible ghosts,
The fungible fog, the tradable mist —
He’s wading today through the rippling bog,
Aflame with the thoughts of the lips he once kissed —
But all of his fancies go drifting away,
Like the clouds in his beer when the whiskey pours through:
He’s longing today for more tangible ghosts
Than the ones that still haunt him
When thinking
Of you
