for Paul Otchakovsky-Laurens
This is an immaterial poem about a ghost,
name of Dennis. I appear less important
to those few among you who knew me
when I was composed more realistically.
Once my empty sockets seemed like evil
eyes to you, and you had no idea their
trick wasn’t great art. Now I barely exist,
but train your sights on this nevertheless.
It’s past your bedtime. I’ve painted myself
into a corner. A ghost has been sketched
here haphazardly. I’m still myself but inspire
no illusions no matter how I’m executed.
To believe in a ghost was small potatoes.
next to the fear in your eyes. I scared you.
All I was is this marked up white sheet, so
I ask you again. Read into my black holes.
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