If there were such a thing
as a ghost of an insight,
our tired old car
would be floating
with flecks of fire,
burnings born
in snaps and flashes,
unexpected
but ordinary
in the middle
of getting there on time,
picking that up,
picking them up.
It might be tempting
to feed them,
these ghosts.
One might even want
to learn to cultivate more
of them
of them
(a delicate art
as they are shy creatures,
and prone to haunting
if neglected.)
