Each morning I wake up and see
what last night brought me: a comment
on a post or perhaps a song I have never
known.

They are all the same to me.
I don’t know where they come from.
I only know their senders as ghosts
or mistakes of memory. Close my eyes,
try to recall them for a few minutes; then
I slip them off to my fog banks,
heavy with recollections unmade like old beds.

I try to write poems about them
but I don’t know enough to do that well —
I must be a stone ghost myself holding
so little of each moment.

Flitting by the windows, flirting
with vanishing after a few seconds;
comments and songs
go with them, with me, go with
the wind and the rain into
the salt-scented earth.

I must also be
a ghost, sitting here unmoved
by anything I have been told.

Tomorrow, then; I will sing,
write, collect then. Until then
I just sit with my eyes closed,
unmoved, like a stone. A ghost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T