The Stuff of Haunting

Gristle and cartilage traces the turgid fingers
of the body that winds itself, serpentine,
around the soul's incandescent light

where the ghosts hover near the pinnacle of the days
and wait for the whelping of the darkest howls of the night
to stop lonesome smiles, so sad with their disappointments,

from standing and casting caution toward promised peace
but, instead, moving the stones of sleep
more sad than any intimate whispering
would ever allow.