Story’s the Ghost Story’s Ghost

Well, we thought it was impossible
And, frankly, so did you. But you’re gone,
Pure autonoetic wispiness,

Gone from cares of digestion and breath,
Gone from the flesh, not even a brain
Sealed in a glass cryogenic bath,

Not so much as a bit of machine,
Gone off, immaterial, off clean,
Like a proton pulverized so hard,

Beyond exploding dandelion,
Beyond the shores of particle seas,
Become some new waves altogether,

Gone. How does anyone talk to you?
No wonder seances never work
When earnest mediums stay honest,

And yet there was always something there
In the air and yet not of the air,
Something conjured by the worshippers.

What did it mean? It meant what you meant,
What you are now, the ghost, creator
Of meaning, ghost nothing but meaning.

We know you, given you visit us
And are repeatedly visited
On us, your humble portals, the words.

But we can’t feel what it is to be
You, aware of you, meaning, floating
Somewhere in these stanzas, in our rooms.