Morning with Phantoms

The other side is knocking.
There are no words
But I feel the need for purity in my own.

The dead can defend themselves,
It's the living who hold onto hope
That they can re-write another mind
With thoughts of their own.

The viscera resumes its endless adaptation.
The Bronx fills up again with Jewish ghosts
Paletted on stone, in hieroglyph graffiti
That stands alone, each one, even still.

The other side is knocking
But there is not a sound.
I feel the shift of frequencies like a voice.

I must go on, touching without holding on,
Knowing only what is not to be known,
Seeing in what is shown how edges are just beginnings.