Conversations (VIII) — to one haunted by a ghost
The key worked. The locked door opens.
I cannot see the word that troubles you.
Empty bottles line the windows. Looking
Out you are still looking in and the inward
Look is contained and darkens as
Sometimes when a word mispronounced
Shakes its muzzle loose unleashes itself
From its owners’ meaning and ends
Up meaning more as in what I am
Thinking of you away from this ghost
Spring Thunder, Spring Lightning
Hungry ghosts bang their empty bellies
Who ever said the kettle cares not for the meal?
Trees lean to the earth and touch it like Buddha
asking the grass safe in its smallness to be a witness
That what looks like sorrow is sacred; and on this open
parking lot the rain slides under cars like a sea of snakes
and toward this tree under which I stand for shelter
where the yellow teeth of monkeys flash behind the leaves