The only ghost I see
is my own reflection in the glass,
Which doesn't look like it could ever be real
much less hold some key to nether worlds
Folded like cards into air
The night construction crew beyond the glass
looks slightly less likely to
Disappear at any moment, though it does
But still the pull of the unseen
calls through the lamp-lit boughs,
These bodies moving down the ramp
must have something pulling them through,
A force to feed the stream or move the leaves
The past's crouched like a tiger
in an empty field
Although you can't see that either