When I’m a ghost, I’ll
haunt you, but delicately—
a passing shadow on the page

when you’re reading on the
train, a sigh behind the door
when you walk through; a breath

all warmth and longing on your
neck, and when you turn, of course,
nobody there.

No chains will rattle silence
from your sleep, no sobs nor heavy tramp
of feet in attic rooms disturb

your peaceful afternoons; just finger-
tips on frosted glass at night, a message
indecipherable, that sunlight

will erase. Only a soft
occasional chill, as if someone
were watching as you step

out of the shower, with water
droplets shining on your cheek
or streaming down the river of your spine.

And when you bend to towel
your dripping legs, the unaccountable
brush of ghostly lips

will curl like mist under your swell
of breasts, and kiss the flat bone clasp
where ribs enclose your heart