Wraiths

It’s not clear.
I can’t quite see it.
The envelope shakes.
And inside, a page.
I ask my wife,
Why are we here?
There’s a stage.
I can’t see a thing.
Although mantles gutter.
There’s a sheet
In the air, vitreous.
The wisps mass, flutter.
A title, then.
The resin sheer
As glass,
Dim, slight,
Floats behind
The skein.
For one night only.
For this minute, really.
Sisal made of quotes,
New shrouds smoke
In the amber,
The language slurred.
And on the screen,
Runes. Then
The ego, brusque,
Abrupt. Too many dreams,
I yawn. Shades open.
And with the dawn
The familiars,
The chrestomancies,
Are gone.

November 22nd, 2025, Magnolia