Ghost in Waiting

He watches me through the oleander bush. 
The rain has softened his cigarette—

is he burning still. A jar of plums cools underground, 
maturing the flesh. He lingers inside the flames,

his hair like weeds grasping a stone, the bones 
breaking, until what’s left is the scraped roof

of a mouth. Afterheat resists the morning chill. 
Unshriveled. We are not separate.

His scent reddens the hour. The air thickens 
as the smoke enters the room. I wish for a breeze

that animates my hair—I will not suffocate a bee. 
Pollen over his bright chest. What grows from where

to what. Trapped heat. Dirt. Thick gauze 
on a wound that heals and unheals in sweat.