There's not a chance.
Too late, he says. But it's never too late
for the poetry of regret.
Pines thicken with this rain.
Always, under complaint
storm clouds ride above
an ancient forest.
A child close to the earth
listens to the slow revolving of
accidents. Already the child knows
he is a ghost
and must practice becoming himself—
the cliff rising above him will not stop.
He's not one ghost but many,
and there's not enough pity in the world for them.