The Ghost

Whiskey over whiskey,
salty sprays.
Tiptoe the mundane,
and boots crush crabgrass.
Come into my view, my hopes,
that slow march, ranger,
and squint back the early sun.

Winds rush, fall breeze — winter’s warning.
Swirl the glass, molecules stir and breathe.
Heart beats the moment; waves thrum.
Vibrate the gentle meaning of lips, sweet ghost —
but what a day where the light shines home,
dancing in the world’s glass.
Whiskey over whiskey,
red embers.

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