Three suns rise—
three pears on the counter.
I don’t care if you are hungry, ghost.
You don your red pants and shoes,
anxious to return to your museum.
But the house no longer shares your blanket.

Your child sneezes seven times
and opens his eyes,
reaches for bread.
I drink flowers.
We are spirits reduced to gestures.
We can be sure of nothing—

Your son and I agree,
we both saw the sun marry the sea.
Amber eyelids, a velvet curse…
We need no proof.
And this exhaustive list of wants
we can finally burn--