09-29-2022, 01:53 PM
We were always ghosts, somehow.
Nearby, yet often invisible.
A quiet haunting of small talk
And looks exchanged in passing,
When no one else was in the hallway.
Immaterial, until a Summer night by the lake
when we took form.
No longer invisible.
On the mirrored water, we saw ourselves, once.
But as sunrise drives ghost to grave,
So we returned, and remained, disembodied wraiths.
Now silent.
Without a funeral, am I bound here? An anchored vapor?
Years have passed.
But now, your picture appears, and I am reminded…
“Would you like to wish ______ a happy birthday?”
And it seems you are still here, somehow.
Nearby, yet often invisible.
A quiet haunting of small talk
And looks exchanged in passing,
When no one else was in the hallway.
Immaterial, until a Summer night by the lake
when we took form.
No longer invisible.
On the mirrored water, we saw ourselves, once.
But as sunrise drives ghost to grave,
So we returned, and remained, disembodied wraiths.
Now silent.
Without a funeral, am I bound here? An anchored vapor?
Years have passed.
But now, your picture appears, and I am reminded…
“Would you like to wish ______ a happy birthday?”
And it seems you are still here, somehow.
"What I want in poetry is a kind of abstract photography of the nerves, but what I like in photography is the poetry of literal pictures of the neighborhood." -John Koethe