a ghost called faith

proof has no opposite
and without it, we float like
ambulances through
the temporary

without lights;
speeding towards
each circus of
difference and
secret excess

moving east
eating each passing
lullaby like hard
candy, then spitting
on the sidewalk

between flights;
as mute buildings
riot in place and
the city itself
becomes both

mouth and wound
and remembers
the west like missing
teeth scattered across
the wasteland.

laid here vast ghost white to the sun and wasted,
what eyes shall we remember have smiled kind?
laid here forgotten; no guide
may see this wide and foreign sea
whose streets have faded pale as daylight
again on memory's static scene -
but eyes have seen her
and gladly remember;
though time shall wear down the bone of pain
to base, before morning come again
David McLean
peter schwartz