Ghosts.

The dead. There comes a moment when we invite them. Leaves fallen, everyone seems to want to provoke them to rise, when all I want to do is put them to rest. Finally, silently, a mere place to look at in the grass.
Smoking a cigar on a grave in another lifetime. Who was I? Have I myself become ghost?
Here are the terrible distinctions of my past, brought to life by a poet long a ghost himself. That damned cypher-poet. A cursed swastika, spinning in the sun. Pisa, a cage, where it should be buried.