at dusk, when gnats mate in Autumn
female male
There is nothing but frenzy
A cyclone out of textures (except
cyclone implies a shape towards an
idea the ghost won't answer)
There is swirling instead of stillness where
stillness is expected
yet these ghosts should be expected
by now.
A ghost.
Each of them endlessly
laboriously
promulgating
taxonomies of
subcategory
until the rain scatters in ways that
we all have names for; smaller than
your hands.
Connecting if they can
the swarm
in time, they have to
their lives so brief
each allotted
so few
moments to make
certain.
To make sure that they will leave
a ghost when they are gone.
I don't quite remember
not quite
exactly how long they live for
these ghosts that we see
(spectrality)
fucking the sun to sleep as
we stare into motion and envy.
I don't know quite how long, he said.
No matter
no matter
neither do they.
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