Who referred to the dead as the well, and dropped a stone?
And though "I do not believe" begins
any number of tales from the Victorian age,
denied doubt a shape, claimed the only ghost is that of love.
It comes back paler than--
A ghost is a hole in the sky.
A ghost is a gash in the mind, a physical sigh
from cell to cell.
A ghost turns in a small room, taking a jar off a shelf,
and opening the sun.
Did forest and enter long answer, my lover?
What is there in the trees is forever, lysing for thee.
And steeply cathedral of heather, last seen beseeching,
was last for the stalwart.
A stolen woke handsome, an asher, then older,
and often upon the highest outcropping of tower,
a storm that had no door frame.
A younger man groping.
They told the story, and worry saved my threating.
A fantail was light for the moment.
That tree there, unfolding.
The face after and halted.
To every one there is one, and only face after.
The one that faces, that isn't, it couldn't.
There's one that keeps returning.
And I become frightened by windows, are single,
and by exactly how much must one have lost.
We traced the eclipse, and watched the slice
a little at the edge.
That glint that needs passage, that I
was on the bridge, that graft had an alum.
What thought had a cedar, your yard arm, and deluge?
A face is defined as anything flying with no need of after.
An organ, an insult, is every and agon.
We are it.
Would not stop your crossing.
Now find me.
Thank you.