Ghost

by Sharon Ashton



The stain is still there
where you and the dogs come in, 
and on the upstairs landing
wretched begonias shed
red petal red petal red. 
How like canon-shot the doorknobs are, 
round and sure shrinkers of space
between here and there.
Space has no meaning now.
I am wherever. 
Motes briefly shaped
by the memories of others. 
Dust on a window sill, 
drifting sometimes
through eyes and mouths
of  hollow Greek helmets
we brought back from Rhodes.