Already a ghost, this town

& every town, really, & how could it anything
else when we’re made of those hauntings & empty

lots stretching where once we’d filled in every inch,
space crowded & crowding, then razed or let burn

or crumble whatever we’d once thought home,
thought yes. So, forgotten: angles unseen.

Because we’re quick to cold-shoulder whole seasons
here facing instead toward an ocean thinking

someday. Because such a window—unlikely.
O, little room where we live. Little room, there

may be nothing but what grids our streets. Maybe
nothing but small storefront, small hill, small

expanse, small creek, small light that lasts, small
patch of land & what gives way, small ground.





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