Narcissus in the Underworld 7
       

Last night a ghost came to me and said,
a little terror haunts everything we do.
I do not think the voice talked to me
alone. Take any tower when it falls.
A refuse blooms, then it settles, fades.
Wounds harden. The urge to scratch becomes
its own problem, until that problem settles,
hardens. Time heals, we say. We say it again.
The children at their computers in class
look down, where the towers fall and fall.
They enter the cloud, the way light enters
the eye. It drags a bit of cloud-dust in,
no sooner felt than blinked into extinction.
The dead cannot hear you. Whatever they say.

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Copyright © 2020 Bruce Bond All rights reserved
from Scar
Etruscan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission