I want to talk to ghosts. Where are they in this country.
Over the red grass, under the rancher motels. To freefall
through their gorgeous startling souls, released from time.
My rearview mirror goes dark. I’m not afraid.
Death is the instant of perfected memory.
It seems just like the present tense, just like life,
colorful and quivering. You won’t relive your days
but all the things you’ve imagined. Some people
are saying they’re going to heaven. They’re imagining heaven.
They’re right. The biggest decision is what to work over
in your head and dream about and how much to do it.
A lot of times I don’t want to do anything else,
no interruptions, but without what I love in the world
I wouldn’t have a reason to imagine. The eternal life
and this one are a braid and it turns to water,
each pours into the other, in the grasp of love.
(published in Ploughshares, Spring 1993)
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