Good mourning

I wake up into the husk of a world
Unfinished, where you can see
The guide-lines.

Caution tape, gummed walls,
Flecks of plaster, neglected caulking:
The world is a lonesome construction site.

I am the stern surveyor!
The progress displeases me.

But still, there is a broad smile
On my face—the world is an overripe fruit.

It's a stump on a footpath,
Or it's a boulder in a stream.

It's ghost laughter
And a frigid embrace.

It's the sun rising on
A funhouse graveyard.

If you look at it from the right angle
It disappears entirely: a trick of the light.