Wrong Sonnet: Mystery

If ghosts are real, they’re professional strangers.
If real, I owe you an apology. You can laugh at me
in this and in our past lives —
in laughter we shudder together.
If knowledge from before this life is
in our cells what couldn’t we know —
distinct from university psychology —
medicine we grow, gather without purchasing.
If knowledge from outside ourselves is real
then by what particle or path or current
shall I encounter it from the ground,
my ears filled with birdcall, rushing
trains, my morning arms sore blue
and only a small cavity to hold
this strange, two-chambered faithfulness?

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