Someone waits at my door. Because he is

    dead he has time but I have my secrets——

    this is what separates us from the dead.

    See， I could order take-out or climb down

    the fire escape， so it's not as though he

    is keeping me from anything I need.

    While this may sound like something I made up，

    it is not； I have forgotten how to

    lie， despite all my capable teachers.

    Lies are， in this way， I think， like music

    and all is the same without them as with.

    The fluid sky retains regret， then bursts.

    He is still there， standing¹ in the hall， insisting

    he is someone I once knew and wanted，

    come laden² with gifts he cannot return.

    If I open the door he'll flash and fade

    like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds

    one summer night at the edge of the world.