You let go of mystery,

now without thinking about it

you know ghosts don't exist

and whatever else,

you suppose,

that might bring someone 

back from the dead.

Your most enlightened philosophies

turn out the lights

on a dark afternoon 

in an empty kitchen

where the shadow of trees

flail like the outstretched

arms of a martyr or saint,

while you sit in a chair

by an open window

contemplating the notion

of the impossible

while the book in your lap 

quietly fills with rain.