Every time I breathe,
I covertly wish
I'd know exactly what the dust wanted me to hear.
And the vibrations of this foreign speech
Would tumble an image Of comprehension,
Into the atmosphere.
So that I can see the ghosts,
Of what once possessed this space.
Perhaps A gentleman In tweed, with his briefcase in a haste,
Or the desperate gaze, telescope in weathered hand, amidst the salted search for land.
A giddy lover's wink, the silent invitation of Eve's stare.
Or the legs of a tripod, disappearing in the grass, Spattered in the hues that the landscape refused,
•••
So powerful our sense of perception should be,
If a gust of the wind always told where he was,
or what he could see.
