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A short time ago I wondered about you but
you were just a specter on a bus.

Now you’re the ghost orb in all my photographs,
the ghost dust on all my phonographs,
I am loose in the old loud charisma of this that is now our ghost town
when you don’t call me to your dirty window with a whisper like a tiny horn
I am groping in the stairwell of a strange epoch when you don’t wisp me off my big calendar

You taught me to spell calendar and now, here again is your ghost
the ghost sand on my dirty paper
hollering like old bread
from a muted record
spinning on my shoulder.