the dead are always

 the heroes of the story

  moonlight   reflects

 in the hollows of their eyes

  in desperate transmission 

  asking silver for a quarry

 

  to complete the bitter circuit 

of their current from the skies 

 wisps of  magnetic

 translation  linger

  adrift before us

 in the sparkling air 

 

the repercussions 

  of the echoes

  diminishing into

  the darkling distance

to hang upside down 

 without care  in the balance 

of just another 

   unresolved deal