Where something enormous
is always crashing through
the most polite transactions on the planet,
Sheets the size of sheets
are converging in
the ink around the concrete covered shores
and fill in the bays, thick.
I lived there before.
In a town famous for raising a cartoonist
who created a group of friendly ghosts.
Now here are ghosts.
Dwarfing and drifting by divers
with an indifference that puts the dark
edge of the universe to dark shame.
Nothing animates them
but the tide.
They feel no pain and have no thoughts.
They are made of mist
and electricity and poison.
And salt and water.
Space and volume.
I remember less and less, and
everything is strange.
They remember nothing, for
they never knew anything.
They are so large and so mindless
and they are collecting.
