I had fallen in love with a ghost but that wasn’t the issue. The issue was how to hold him and where to get the nicotine. Here, kitty, kitty, I said to him but he wasn’t biting, he wasn’t even looking. He was at a bluegrass festival. Activists and Saints fuck like rabbits, proven fact. 75 percent of you will die with people in the room, fact. Not alone, you’ve got people. He swept in and out, he didn’t even need to open the door to get in, though I think he was mostly concerned with getting out, which was easy to do quietly because he was of course, a ghost. But let’s not be coy and affected, this is poetry, peppers. The Pinata was hanging in the living room when we met, I walked up to it quietly to better survey the situation, I circled it twice hanging, I sniffed the paper-mache but only smelled dust. I looked around for something to hit it with, like a stick or a pool cue or a bamboo shoot but realized in order to crack it open I’d have to think to myself about how far back I can reach my arms.