A Ghost Story (in pieces - part two)

ii.
It’s autumn now
this home is shedding,
paint peeling off the siding,
termites trailing in the paneled wood.
do you remember when this house was built? 
when the land was staked and the daughter burnt, 
and the basement dug with snakes and roots?
do you remember the piano?
the back doorway? I wonder, 
are we just moving through these objects as a constant of time, 
or does the time move through us as a constant for space? 
did time ask us to witness their being, 
or did we ask them?
is that how we’ve grown so detached? 
not knowing which we asked for, 
not honoring which we yearned for,
getting swept by an invincible undertow. 
is that how you became so angry? 
have you been left behind too? 

.ham