Ghazal: On the Table
I was taught to smooth the aura at the end,
said my masseuse, hands hovering at the end.
Inches above my placid pummeled self
did I feel something floating at the end?
Or is my naked body merely prone
to ectoplasmic vapors to no end?
Many other arthritics have lain here
seeking to roll pain's boulder end on end.
Herbal oils, a DC playing soft
loon calls, wave laps, bird trill now must end.
I rise and dress, restored to lift and bend,
my ethereal wisp invisible at the end.
-from The Long Marriage