Toast to my Ghost

My ghost already lives with us. 

She does not fuss over details in rooms.

She has relinquished my self-designated

position of chief procurement officer.

I don't speak to my ghost. Who needs 

speech. She roasts my reach. She cheers me on

even when I rage at myself, seeking 

to mimic the myth of confidence.

My ghost affords us rapture. She reminds

me to elevate my urge to sing, call it

something with stature. All I know

occurs in voice or hovers across 

a several measures' rest. Listen

to the malt consistency of quiet

living between the lines of the staves.

Speaking in code when not speaking at all.