At the heart there is a hollow sun
by which we are constructed and undone
Behind the mirror. Favourite place to hide.
I didn't breathe. They looked so long I died.
What's shown when we unveil, disclose, undress,
is first the promise, then its emptiness
Ghost-face. Not because I turned my head,
but because what looked at me was dead.
— We don't exist — We only dream we’re here —
This means we never die — We disappear —
We’d met ‘in previous lives’, he was convinced.
Yeah, I thought. And haven’t spoken since.
All rooms will hide you, if you stand just so.
All ghosts know this. That's really all they know.
Copyright © 2015 by Don Paterson, 40 Sonnets, Faber & Faber