the night raymond carver came back as a ghost

it was that night when we thought
we could still talk to raymond carver.
we were talking about love or raindrops
or something as simple
as a window’s four-paned pattern
on a kitchen table.
yeah so gin’s gone. what’s next?

nothing happened except for you and me.
the stars were still hanging on hooks
the waves were still curling over our feet.
it was that night where raymond carver
came back as a ghost
and you and i had happened on a beach.
his breath came in ragged gasps
as he told us about how to talk about love.
foam from a wave curled over our feet
and we kept on talking back to other ghosts
while carver kept talking about love, while he
kept telling stories about other writers talking about throwing other writers
out of windows.

the waves were still curling over our feet.
it was that night where we
were singing about a fire
its flames listened to stories about our breath
on a beach at night.
nothing happened.
it was that night where, wait.

i have it.

we were with raymond carver
smoking cigarettes, lighting ash out of ash
we were watching couples claw at buttons
as they rolled in the surf.
something happened.

the night was running
we were falling into place.