Our Ghosts

Your liar’s smile,

a brief hesitation,

an admission of guilt.

We sit across the picnic

table plank, plotting, silently.

As silent as the smoke

raises from Big Sur earth,

mystical swirling toward blackness

from the campfire.

A smoldering,

burning brush,

struck by flint.

A spark as silent as the secrets

that float around us,

we surround ourselves

with our ghosts.