The Dance

The ghost of another comes to visit and we hold
communion while the light shines.
While the light shines, what else can we do?
And who doesn’t have one foot in the grave?

I notice how the trees seem shaggy with leaves
and the steam of insects engulfs them.
The light falls like an anchor through the branches.
And which one of us is not being pulled down constantly?

My mind floats in the purple air of my skull.
I see myself dancing. I smile at everybody.
Slowly I dance out of the burning house of my head.
And who isn’t borne again and again into heaven?

Mark Strand