The Ghost I

Your ghost forms
From dust, cobwebs
And colourlessness.
I see through you
Transparent and pale
Being unreal
Being ethereal -

I see you as you were
I see you as you are
Now in that hell
Of your own choosing.
Poor loser.

While here
Back at the ranch
All has slowed
To a crawl.
I mark time like
Sticks on a wall,
Like a black and white
Soldier film all war and
Marching.
There is a slow-paced
Rhythm to this
Current place of
Stasis-living

Which thinks and sits
And thinks again
Digesting food like pain,
Swallowing the past away.
It does not do.  It simply
Is.  It exists by
Learning how to be.
Its verb is not
Active, fast, declining,
It is infinitively
All potential.

It is a kind of
Quiet humour, a clause
Of discovery
That will not last
But while it does
It does.  It parses
Loss and is
Enough.

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