I am the ghost who leaves the lights on,
the doors propped open, the water running—
the murmur from upstairs, the whisper in the vents,
the glitch in the software, the echo on the phone.
My watch shows tomorrow’s date.
I am the bookmark for the day
you can’t get out of bed,
the holding pattern above
the damage from the last big crash,
desiccated leaves still hissing from the shock.
I am chasing the horizon.
Through the window: a red kite
at the moment the wind stops
after covering our tracks with sand,
and the kite’s still hanging like a photograph
when sunset swallows land and sea
and even the sky, stars and all.
mr oCean, September 2012