I wouldn't have chosen to try it myself, all that struggling
Down through the broken rocks and sand to get within wading distance
Of the green and tan water, but there I sat crouched in tattered shade,
My bare feet caked in mud, no idea if I would ever make it back
Along a path so easy for the ordinary, so stupidly risky for me,
Cottonwood tossing over me, small family beside me.
I am the voice that haunts my author, the one he hates in his mind's ear,
The one who, when the day is hot and the stream is rushing cool,
Instead of poems, says things like this: Ghosts are liars.
That's how we pass through you. We don't pass through walls.
We pass through your thoughts. It's possible to walk around, so to speak,
Among the living and be mistaken for someone alive, but we have to lie
And we have to be good at it. Catch us out and we're gone to even ourselves.
We only wish we could haunt you with you knowing we're here.
Whenever you know we're here, we're gone. Things like that, I say.
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