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Rueful for a dead lover. For three nights
I have been at the graveyard’s dirt crossroads

praying for a wanton haunt. No ghost-lights.
No arms that hold me down; kiss that explodes

in chill across my skin; voice in my ear
going, “shhh, baby.” I’ve abused this skin,

dripped blood and cum in the dirt; read Shakespeare,
Sappho, Blake out loud. All the discipline

I’ve learned keeps me coming back but I cum
alone. Each morning my Love-Crone candle,

Lilith root, Follow Me Ghost trick remains
untouched, sperm-sticky, contrite. “Gimme some,”

the song goes, “Dead girl/ Gimme some.” Rueful
for what must lay beyond these veiled domains.