The Ghosts

Of people dead fifty years and not only people--
Theaters and streetcars and large hotels follow me
Into this dusty little gully. None of them ever liked California
Why don’t they stay in Portland where they belong.
I’m tired of them.

A new ghost in this morning’s dream,
Beautiful and young and still alive
How far will that one follow me? I’m not chasing any,
Any more.
Tassajara, 14:VII:79