March 18, 2015 | 10:12 a.m.
All my ghosts come home to me.
All my ghosts crawl home
skin-kneed and sorry, sore to the bone and back
for more.

Ten years gone, she floats in,
Hangs around the mouth like bitter beer,
And cigarette talks on midtown sidewalks,
How dare she feel familiar.

Oh, how a haunt can still chill in summer,
Even along the stuttering serene greens of Kentucky,
Even on sun faded ships in the blinding, dead-wind waters of the Gulf.

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