The wind is full of sea monkeys
And the wind is full of swimming apes
The wind is full of sailors and their peg-monkeys
The wind is full of parrots kidnapped from Brazil
The wind swarms with blithe monkeys
The wind swarms with light monkeys riding photons
Lithe quick monkeys writing home on the skins of photons
Bright lithemonkeys running faster than ghosts
The wind is full of sailormonkeyghosts
Scanning for the ghostline in the fog
The fog made of old dull ghosts from the 1480's
It's a livin, grouses one in old Portuguese
And in the storms wait the handy navigators
Like the one who appeared on Capt. Slocum's boat
And steered him to safety
Helpful navigator shades swing down on star ropes
Swing down the skysheets
And land catlike on the quarterdeck
Is there a sailor in peril? He asks in mind-language,
Which needs no translation

The speed of ghostlight is 300,001 km/sec
So it's no surprise we don't see them
The bastards ain't in our lightcones
But only in our soulcowcatchers
Which poke forward conically along the tracks
And push ghosts and gods out of the way
The ghostly cow-watchers watch beside the tracks
And seize and milk any cows killed by trains
It's appalling how they converge
And then quaff the stuff by the bucket
Ghostmilk is, they say, ever so refreshing
Just a little less so than moonmilk
Which is why any full moon night
You can see millions of ghosts dripping off the udders of the moon
Some falling into space, to land in the Atlas-nets,
The rest, like millions of albino kittens,
They paw and struggle for the best nipples.
Down below, the dogs bark and squeal,
Leaping to get at the bastards.
Then, giving up, circle and fall asleep.