this whole place is one long poem about ghosts

The notion of
ghosts is
uncomfortable
sometimes, only
sometimes
though
because
there are things
like abuse and
neglect and
doubt
and
mistrust and pain
and how

how

does
the world keep on
spinning on
and on

how

do we go on
when this thing is still
around -- even if it
has disintegrated
turned to dust and slime, it's
in the air, it's
taking shape again, changing
into something else
smaller, maybe
not so ugly, maybe
not so scary or strong but
still

there. And

the same is true
of golden things, of
happy things now gone
now turned to dust and sunshine
water
and flowers
and air and stars and
memory
and changing
always changing
into something new, something
that can't be touched, can't be
caught or kept and yet
(thank goodness)
still it's

there.