Phantom Visitations

At night,
with the lights off,
the door closed,
and the curtain
pulled down below the window;
my thoughts
chassé from my mind.

In the light,
that escapes
from my digital alarm clock,
I see their
naked
white wisps
of bodies
dance
in the still
of a dreamless room.

Instead of dreams,
I see poetry
come alive
from the hands
of these
heaven-heighted
spirits.
Their handwriting
is elaborate,
flowing in flourishes
that typeset
has yet to
replicate.

It's hard
to collect
everything
from these walls
while the room
is still en-caved
by darkness,
but I know
the second
I move to turn
my nightstand's light
on
the poems
and their
shimmering bodies
will vanish.
As they race away,
I race
the onset of sleep
and late-night-forget-fullness
to copy
everything onto a page.
I wish I had
a candle.

It cannot be enough
to watch the
nimble bodies
extrapolate
meaning
from their fingertips
by myself,
but even
my ghost
emotions
are shy.