Poem of the Week

i

At the heart there is a hollow sun

by which we are constructed and undone

ii

Behind the mirror. Favourite place to hide.

I didn't breathe. They looked so long I died.

iii

What's shown when we unveil, disclose, undress,

is first the promise, then its emptiness

iv

Ghost-face. Not because I turned my head,

but because what looked at me was dead.

v

— We don't exist — We only dream we’re here —

This means we never die — We disappear —

vi

We’d met ‘in previous lives’, he was convinced.

Yeah, I thought. And haven’t spoken since.

vii

All rooms will hide you, if you stand just so.

All ghosts know this. That's really all they know.