Some say they’ve seen you, seen a maybe ghost,
a shred of stranded autumn fog at dusk
among autistic trees, inert, at most
so mildly touching, and never being touched.
Some say they’re heard you, say you hum and brood
like pigeons wait out rains beneath the eaves
rehearsing unimportant coos, till shooed
by bb guns or brooms or squads of blowing leaves.
So sad that you are sought among the runes,
the humours, intuitions, moods, and maybes.
Yes, you are still — like rapt Cistercian tunes
and yes, you are small — like Boticelli’s babies.
Not nudges at night, nor questions in the brain
like tremors in the bed from a distant train.
TimothyOne 