the broken ghosts are the worst.
they wander the pre-dawn shadows

arms hacked off replaced with twine tied
to hip bottles of Jäger trying bad pick up lines

on the living: younger than my daughter, pink sweatered
push-up braed, that slightly abandoned look

too far from campus and needing to sleep it off
rub the sleep out with empty hip bottles

an hour or so after sunrise in about an hour.
this is one of those resurrection stories

the ones someone tells years after in a bar
that night I slept naked on the wharf