I see them when others can not.
The faint traces of yourself
you have left behind.
Like lines of dialogue
still playing in the head after a movie or
a face touching a spider web
in the shadowy dark shoals
churning at the bottom of the cellar steps.
Greasy lipstick stuck on a glass like clown paint.
Storefront windows painted black.

Ad-libbed, scriptless scream.
Terror, voluptuousness and mystery
stir all the ingredients needed
for a dark good haunting
where once you lit up my life.
Ghosts are cold just deserts
like blood congealing to jello
outside flesh and bone.
Hollow like a sucked out egg.

Making sound but noise.
Cold drafts sucking sallow cheeks in.
Gobs of nebulous fog.
Thunder without lightening or rain.
In the cemetery of I am still alive,
of unrequited love,
sweet rue I allowed it to happen!
Tares to grow over my unattended gravestone.
Silage for pigs to trample underfoot.

In daylight all saints shine.
In starlight, in moonlight
just the glimmer of ghosts.