I have just set the sun in the sky, slightly
angled toward afternoon, when my ghost comes
to tell me my images are again
infantile like a child drawing with crayons.
where are the birds, the jet from chicago
streaming its way to houston, or perhaps
a reiterated ‘v’ of migrating
fowl—it is the season—and where those leaves,
richly colored in the bright november
clear . . . again, I drift in thought, wondering
whose poem this actually is, and why
it is this ghost haunts me each time I come
to type these verses—and to color skies
vivid in prismacolor on newsprint . . .

dmpitchford