Huh, I barely remember this poem!
It just popped up in the process of reorganizing my documents after migrating to Mac. I’m a writer, not a poet, and I regard any poem that I topically or accidentally compose, and which is not intentionally satirical, is derivative of some poetic style or other by default. It creaks & grates, and it sounds like song lyrics but I at least remember that it wasn’t written for a song. But that’s all I can remember, and I have only the most vague idea about what it could possibly mean or be about.
Let’s meet where all them angels dwell
with money changing hands;
Where superstition haunts the haunted
ones with heart-shaped blanks.
Then walk along this disconnected
line to where it bends,
Toward the gentle reach where no one
shows up in the end.
Yet laughter-woven ghosts create
themselves with sudden skill
To weave sophisticated views
from April window sills.