Ghosts

the night the ghosts disappeared

it was quiet.  really, really, quiet.

what happens when the noise shuts down.

. . . .

sucking out ghosts          past Þ into

                                                        now

                                       (sleeping, we are sleeping                                 

 . . . noise  Þ dirt.

things become quiet

becalmed like

the Pequod in the Pacific

a loop of nothing. death

perhaps, is a loop of nothing

I sometimes feel I’m skating close

  to the edge of nothing

bouncing off loops of nothing

                                                 counting nothing

from Oblivion

written 1999