Where are my ghosts?

Wheat & Tares

When I dream of after death,
my ambition makes Heaven
a cubbyhole. God’s place,
snug in a grove, seems nice
enough. Yet I step out from it.
I whittle Time’s Arrow down
to chips, shred them down
to dust grains, mull them down
to molecules. I press these
into a skyscraping stack of cards.
Smirking, I shuffle epochs.
Giggling, I fan all space-time
out, grinning as it spreads
easily at my bidding, or…

I wake alone on the flank
of a grand old battlefield.
I’ve visited it many times
and never want to leave
for long. The hillside taught
me heroism, how to be a man,
how to die well.

I walk the Dutch ground pining:
Where are my ghosts?
They were there when 3rd grade
me wanted only replica cannon
on which to climb; when teen
geek me came alone to read
on boulders out of tourism’s
way; when…

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