There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus. There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes. Sylvia Plath

 ghosts are everywhere
 djinns from the smokeless fire
 pulses of her heart stopped
 in a knot
 of wraiths chattering
 mixing and melding
 in this invisible air
 oddest number is one,
 moments linger in the empty chair
 talking to a lady who’s no longer there,
 odd that even two is only ever odd 1 + odd 1
 associations carry on until the wood
 rots and there are no trees and no ice
 and no air and nobody there….

only the hallowed spirits of times passed
 only the solid citizens, 
 who thought they would outlast plastic,
 proved to be eminently biodegradable like
 that empty chair
 now melded like the sitter
 into the damp, brown clay
 around which silent ghosts
 coagulate and pray.

?si=sL3v5naVsCJKW1AE