Each of us is also a ghost. 
Most you can see.
They look like the person you are.

I have a friend who has a friend 
Who asked her to place her hand
And place a flower on Samuel Beckett’s grave

Believed only in art.
Believed in tête-à-têtes.
Believed in walks to the top of the hill.

Gulls spiral high above
The porch tiles and my gulf-green, 
Cliff-hanging lawn, with their 

I’m frightened. You too?

It sang without a sound: music that
The naive elm trees loved. They were alive.
Oh silky music no elm tree could survive.

I like to be dead.
That’s what the dead say.
I’d rather be dead than so-called alive.

The honey, the humming of a million bees,
In the middle of Florence pining for Paris;
The whining trembling the cars and trucks hum

The crocodile is eating the new barman! 
There’s a leg sticking out of its mouth.
Waiter, I’d like another one while I take in this gorgeous sunset.

My God, what a beautiful New York day!
If only getting old would go away!
Wings that used to lift me like a hawk