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?