There are ghosts everywhere,
I am sure of it,
because they left hand prints
in all my open paint cans
in all my empty rooms
in all my homes.
I have taken measurements.
I have photographed everything.
There is no thing I have o'erlooked.
There are ghosts in everything
like in the way sounds in the world
swell, all at once.
Water in a fisherman's net.
Swollen ocean. Swollen salt deposit.
Pressing out,
against all the other fish pressing out,
all the sounds in the world
until they sound like the wind.
There are ghosts
in the way
we pass out along the roads
whenever death decides to roll on by.