In discussing if it existed
—Thomas Gunn
And the rain—
To the dank mist
And swirling wraiths,
All mute ghosts
Rising in pain,
Haunting streets
And alleyways.
It’s bizarre
The way you
Appear before me
Dilatory
And demanding,
Insisting
I possess
A tacit understanding
Of the past.
You’re a phantom
Rising in gloom—
A mist, a vapour
Somehow attuned
To the radar disc
Of the moon.
I keep no photos
So when I ache
I put my wounds
On full view
In a display case.
Each time
I see you
the scar
Cuts deeper;
I end up
Walking barefoot
On river stones
Precarious,
Balancing needs
And hopes…
Grasping at shadows
I can’t hold.