To The Ghosts
Now it says there is a sad column rising from
Her relatives
Because they wished that they had graves,
Wanderers piled inside the caravanerserai—
What lips they had still sing songs
When the wind plays them underneath the
Lamplight stolen into the sky:
Unbeaming wishes in the architectures of
Those bodies:
The wolves and dogs come and howl:
Somewhere close, a suburbia, and amusement park:
And trams to take the living home—
Emulations above the heads of these crypts
Where roses thought to drink—
And crickets dipped their necks like ticket holders
On a ride to the ghosts.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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