POEM: Ghosts Reciting Poetry

Once we dreamt of marbled ash, of tooth & bone as rubble, a post-war Europe, tossed between fingers.
The holes of us, the atomic solid space of us, now a marbled space, the way we think of Rome as always indestructible.
Once we dreamt of sculptors releasing figures trapped in stone, it becoming clear that art is only beholden to the artist.
Once we dreamt of what we would say when asked “what would you like done with your body after you die?” and it froze our love, dead in its tracks.

When we are cremated, words escape steamlike, just pebbles left behind to play with.
Hardscrabble lint, kept in a pocket, perhaps, to scratch another’s inner thighs.

Which is how you will know it is us.

That and the poetry we will recite.