Poem 513

The idea that audio echoes and visual snapshots may be imprinted in our surroundings through repetition, emotion and memory … and wondering if that’s true what might be left of me …

( I like the clutch of spirit fragments I’ve created and how I make friends with them … )

Haunted

Ghosts
              look
the Gnashing Woman
and the Bright Child
handless Black Sleeves
the sound of the Golden Bantam
or the groan
of the car climbing the hill
that never arrives

where am I
when I think about the roses
when the sputter of the sea foam
on the sand
is so clear?

will I and this typewriter
come chattering back out of these walls
like a set of mechanical
teeth?

             (the bantam is pecking
from my hand
                             and the child
is just a glow
a fading electric fire)

where is that car?