Mezzanine ghosts

OK, ghosts – i do feel you here as ever, this coastline, this shallow and insistent morning, waxing crescent of time. I am a lone protruding rock against so much moving water, facing into the crisp, unopened bud of the year. I feel your tenderness and your distance, ghosts in the mezzanine, in all the fray you brought here– to the shore, to my bones, to all your bleeding endeavor — but in the end, it is a residue of gentle, almost forgetful melancholy that makes it til morning, smiling in plain sight there for the soft-slapping tide to erase.