The Search

for Daniel Philibert

he is lost, he got lost

your room of milk glass

no longer refracts a ghost,

you are stone, part of a mountain,

eyeless on a cool green bed,

unseen and unspoken, now saintly

sparrow-boned and clockwork-driven,

you raced with short pace against

the old horse of ice and morning

and the lottery of gravel and slipping;

now I have two weights of dark and light,

two wet eyes, a long look upwards,

sleep over, sleep tight, wait.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

at least when we have that ghost of one we loved and lost...there is that...but when the ghost disappears, the memory tries to fade...i doubt this would ever happen in this case...i have ghosts as well...and no matter how long it's been...they remain etched in my mind long after the apparition fades.
i feel this poem so much.
j.