He’s back in the ghost house
where he, himself, is the ghost.
In this slow silt of neglect
half the light bulbs are blown, the drawers
jammed full of emptiness; the mail
still drifts unopened by the stair.
Outside the old house
—which his mother would call
broken, a ‘broken home’—
he’s trying to clear his head:
sweeping leaves into piles
that the wind just blows away.
From: https://theamericanscholar.org/four-poems-robin-robertson/#
Date: 2012
By: Robin Robertson (1955- )
From Troubles of The World 