The few who remain can live openly.

Those you’ve fallen away from,
the others without bodies
have disappeared because they are unremembered.

After sunset, you may think of me.
You may possibly hold all that I was 
like trinkets of blue smoke

listening with lament
because only a few handfuls of rain 
can be squeezed from passing clouds.

You shout disappointment at the capricious unending,
weeping fog, vanishing the albino sky.

With a sidelong glance and a stray memory
enemies begin to reappear;

wraiths are the voice with which you sing

and I stand next to you, crossing November gales,
consorting with light itself.

Bio: Richard King Perkins II