Ghost Stories

Pocketknife picking at the sideways
8. Though mine is not. So. So, the
blood pricks vertically, that is up
and down, running the length like

tears from a hollow blue eye.
Apollo never fails me. In his
musical aspect at least. As the
god of fortune, of prophecy. Not

so much. No, not so much at all.
But in this, in this, this music.
Yes, oh, yes, godlike, he is. For
how could I have continued, one

rickety foot in front of the
other, as it were, along the bone-
spiked back of what was left of
life, without this. This Music.

With these bobbles in the dark.
Anything is possible.
Dying in your arms. Yes, that, even
that is possible.

The bodies of small men. Compact.
Compartmentalized. Sharpened staves
from the tips of my fingers slicing
sinewy scars into their closely packed

flesh. Closely packed. Roomless flesh.
So many of them marked. That way.
One hidden blue track. And there is

nothing, nothing, nothing, no-
thing to match, not ever, to match,
the sad, swollen rolling legato of
what we might have been.

Temple veins popping with gold.
Treasure. Trappings. Snares. And
we are undone forever. Forever.
Always. For always. Undone.

So they tell me.
Maybe one day. Maybe one day.
We shall rise. In a howling, a
howling, a howling, a screaming

murmuration we shall rise. Then,
not even the bones of the ancients,
not even the smoke of their prayers
before dawn, will tether us to the


©sdrogers 24 october 2014