Sam Ross

My ghost refuses
to fall in love with statues

anymore, or anyone.
He claims

we are the same as we were
in the 90s, says,

Your father
moves decisively as I pass through

ten thousand walls.

Solar warmth surrounds

my fingers with rings.
Everyone looks

at the blue linen
hanging on my back.

I pass. I have not forgotten how
to trick even myself,

like a peony opening
on the landing

because it lacks an instrument
to sense the paleness,

or sense to know better.
How do you stay decent and still

refuse everyone all
of the time?