Poems by Mark Young

GHOSTS

It is a myth, this
persistence of belief that
ghosts are waiting
to come tumbling down
in the midnight, in the
witching hour. Not
that there are none – quite
the opposite. Somewhere
it is always midnight; &
so there are always
ghosts, the real & the cyber-
real, friends & enemies. I
know some of them. They
have always haunted
me. Even now, in the late
afternoon, there are ghosts
sitting outside on the tamarind
tree, eating the pods &
dropping their droppings
on the path below. Some
seeds escape them. I sweep
them up. Some seeds
escape me, have fallen
into the garden where they
will grow. It is what
I hate about ghosts. The
leavings. The continuity.


FROM THE POUND CANTOS: CENTO XXXIII 

The sky overshot, dry, with no
tempest. By river-marsh, a sad
man, pacing, lost in a forest of
stars. The house a shade too solid
& the art full of flames & voices.
The scarlet curtain throws a less
scarlet shadow; knocking at empty
rooms, seeking for buried beauty.

Elsewhere, the swimmer’s arms
have turned to branches. Smoke
hangs on the stream. An old man
with a basket of stones, saying:
fire — always, & the vision always.
& out of nothing, a breathing.


SUNT LACRIMAE RERUM

The dehumidifier weeps nanoparticles
as I pass by. Or perhaps they’re actual
tears & I’ve been away from the real

world for too long to be able to recog-
nize what is, what isn’t. I smell the lakes
of creosote that line the pathway. I pick the

flowers that spring from them. Fish fly
around me, sing songs of constant sor-
row. I leak a particulated fear in reply.


A LINE FROM OSKAR KOKOSCHKA 

The outlook for the German e-
conomy has almost completely
rebounded due to its reliance on
a prevalence of memes reacting

to the methane emissions that still
remain along its gas supply chains.
This is their field of expertise. We
all have our coping mechanisms.

Even if someone might walk out in
to the night, they know the risks in-
volved, have weighed their options.
No groping around in uncertainty.