All that’s left are stories.
Like ghosts in photographs
our mountains eroded by
acid rains masquerading as
soothing words lulling us
to sleep.

Fantasies and illusions,
this house of mirrors.
I grew up in the country
and now reside in a desert
city where roads busting at
their seams with noise
pollution remind me of
August crickets.

And at once I find myself
at the creek down the road
where the cattails and marsh
grasses stand at attention.
A few feet away the ground is
still barren and just like we
used to, I lean forward to peer
anew at those ghosts in old
photographs; ripples in the
creek still undisturbed by
this many years.


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