

after Eric Fischl
Scene IV
A sheet-ghost, the kind that shutters even when
you grab it round the neck. Ghosts are certain.
She’s folding laundry or unfolding laundry.
She’s laundering. Or she lost a necklace, an earring
in the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.
My love, bent over, not broken, but hinged maybe.
All the fragments in the world don’t add up to a whole.
I want to reach in to the painting, this time, just this time,
and tell her: strike a flint against my face and the stubble
will beget a spark, and fire, once again, will be born from boredom.