So; you are here again.
Something solid near my grave:
something I could almost touch.

Except that when I reach for you,
my fingers slide through
your body: there is nothing
to stop them.

We are like that:
we can do tricks you only dream of.

My fingers used to slide
through your hair, but now
you do not see me. That too
is a trick, but it is a secret.

We all stand here and watch as you
come with your flowers.
It is kind of you to come. I see
you do not bring her.

I try to touch you, but
I always found it hard. Now
it is too late. I know that.

There is a light somewhere, I think.
It may be
a way out. Sometimes I feel it behind me, or
in the distance,
but there is nothing to touch. We can only
scream into the silence, watching you.

It is a trick. I hope you do not find out
how it works.


This is another poem from the past – ten years ago, to be precise. I am not sure I would have written it quite like that now, but as Bob Dylan and many others said, things have changed. Me, for example.