Perhaps angels
speak to me,
I do not know.
Perhaps the voice
is my Father's
long thought to be
one of Brisbane's ghosts.
Perhaps it's
the Lakota Chief
from my days
of ouijie boards
sitting cross-legged
on a bed
with my friend Julie
saying,
'Was that you?
It wasn't me.
Are you sure
you didn't
move the cup?'
I do not know.
Perhaps the voice
is mine
trying out answers
to the whys
that fill my head
in these days
of disquietude
I do not know ...
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