Barely a Ghost in Her Own Song

Even though you're almost dead
Don't ever lose your sense of wonder,
The clothesline of prayer flags
In the windy dark under high desert

Night backboned cliffs sheer as sliced
By a knife. The stars, the stars,
The incorrigibly meaningless stars
Sprawled out in feline nonchalance,

Midnight's chanteuse of light,
One voice combs out of many
The little hints that something had to be
Out there that used to be in here.