No ghosts, but my wet clothes raving on the railing. We are dehydrated and starving, sucking madly at the rain like lonesome roots. I only want to pull your hair down to the sweating pavement so you can lick the thunder reflected in rolling puddles. No ghosts, there being no memory to sustain them, but we wield our horned imaginations like a dick in the hand, like a tit to the mouth, and we feign ghosts in our wake, dripping on our arms and sighing dreams from our locked chests. My fingers are tomahawks, my tongue a landslide, and I walk not with respect for the dead and their stones but with an embarrassed and self-conscious fear that a hearty misstep may uproot the crypt.