A ghost is born naked, squinting and glum.
There is no mother to catch it, nothing
to cling to with a tooth, a toe or thumb.
There are no older siblings for learning
the ways of the night. If you can hear bats
sing you can hear ghosts sigh. Few ask, what’s wrong?
ask how the day went? What paramour chats
with a ghost — tea and laughter — all nightlong?I don’t resent this coming to an end.
Now when I sleep I hide in a wall crack
and my face is modest. I don’t resentrebirth; finding out that ghost dreams depend
on how forgotten we’ll become; flashback
to when we thought we knew what alone meant.
ghost dreams
07 Thursday Feb 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
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