Jackson

I heard the silent sound—
something spilling deep
inside you
My arms reached out to hold you—
you, out of reach,
lying in a cold room,
not leaving.
Not leaving. That was what I wanted to say, and:
How does it feel? In the dark
night, as you lay down your head,
how does it feel? Not leaving, staying
where you were born, staying
with all the ghosts. I left my ghosts
but new ones grew, with silent spilling sounds,
slithering through the ether, the unreal
ether … from you
to me, from there
to here, and
back again! and
back again! and
how does it feel?
Oh, how does it feel?