My Ghosts by Grant Tarbard

My ghosts are already inside this room
keeping me company with pitch silence,
kicking dust piles weaved into a throat’s shawl.
My ghosts are stern jawed, awaiting sirens
eternally, but none came. I was catching bees,
mud and corrosion kept me pointing north
towards the gate that’s got no latch, no keys.
I was capturing beauty in an old
Kilner jar, a stone rampart between me
and my starving death, depicted in gold,
projected on to these walls, oh my love,
I can turn to you if I close my eyes
I feel your white breath as I hear the skies.

Grant Tarbard

Grant Tarbard is the author of the newly released Loneliness is the Machine that Drives this World (Platypus Press). Follow him on Twitter at @GrantTarbard.

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