I go through a wall. It’s easy if I don’t think,
‘Holy crap, I’m going through a wall!’
I come out in the kitchen, in the sink.
I hop down lightly, and I quietly call

her name. She turns and looks at me, surprised.
She says, ‘I didn’t hear you. Want some tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ I smile. I quickly improvised
a reason to say no, so she won’t see

anything I try to drink go slipping through
me this ghostly way. I try to cheer myself.
I know from trying that my feeling blue
is something I can tuck upon a shelf.

We gaze at each other, watch each other’s faces.
‘I’m running late.’ I wave, walk out the door.
A photographer might catch two smiling faces,
one fading like a shadow on the floor.

From time to time I work on a series that I am provisionally calling OUT OF BODY. Here’s one from there:

My mind is by definition what I know.
Or is it? Do by ‘mind’ I mean my world?
Two selves, both mine, are not disposed to go
through one door. They did once. A flag unfurled

and ushers of a potentate or prince
rushed me along a corridor to meet
my fate. Or someone’s. New found evidence
suggests that the deaths recorded were too neat

an explanation for the dying fall
of joy. Where was I? Hopefully, not there.
In fact I was. I had to watch it all.
Or was that fiction, when the raging bear

tore me, both of me, into what you see:
a mind encumbered by reality?