Lilac Wine

There are rotations that make me whole,
make the world seem sane, make the colours
grow, make the landslide slow, make the
cucumber Sunday seem like bargaining.
Times are aflight and afloat with nauseous
haste and still those plastic discs find a
spinning comfort I rate. You’re a timeslice
of pain, young lust and refrain where I wept
with the ghosts; those I loved the most. Now
the true ghosts are weaving, and painting
the ceiling, not the walls flecked with silver
but the canvas, cracked: I’m a believer.