Seance number nine

We wake, made of silk
I wonder at the setting
Of your moon-sharp chin
Lonely satellite, in quaternary beaming
At seance nine we spoke
Of the lies told by the dead
With their voracious appetites
For unresolved regrets
Silent now
That we directly ask
In a falling game
Strange dirt gleaming on your smile
The planchette of you hands
 Moving of their own accord
Planting joys and miseries
In unfamiliar ground
To see in glaucoma moonlight
What par-blind flowers grow
Quiet, but still, not quite
Almost lost for words