"I don't believe in ghosts, you see,
but only rationality--
for every bell, a well-blown whistle,
never down without its thistle."
"But what of things untouched, unheard,
unseen, unmetered, just inferred?
The hair that lifts along the nape
when flames of candles shift their shape
without the presence of a breeze,
when something moves that no one sees?"
"Poppycock is my response;
it's only wax and wicks and sconce...
And, oh, I thought I'd made it clear
you're not to touch me there, my dear!"
"And how, my pet, do you suppose
'twas I who touched you when you know
I'm seated half the room away?
Explain again the candle's sway?"
Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.