Ghost in the Window

There’s a ghost in the window. The night fills his eyes.
Though the room is empty of words he speaks to me.
He mouths your name silently, vowel by vowel.
He gestures with a hand that looks like mine
but which dissolves into the dark. It’s him I see
when I look out the window now.

The stars in the sky, the lighted windows below
my fourth-floor room, they are his garlands and his chains.
He stands unmoving in that interrupted dark,
relentless, persistent, vain. He says your name
over and over again, until I start
to feel its syllables in my own mouth.

Finally I hear it spoken out. The ghost is satisfied.
He fades into darkness. The night fills my eyes.

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