One day our ghosts wake to find Earth settled
in the dust of a dead child’s room. They search
old houses, abandoned cars on the railway,
factories filled with pieces of space ports
and diagrams, star charts and alien languages.
Time passes in evolving plants: vines which walk
and dance, devour statutes, sing to our ghosts
that they should have followed us aboard
our white ships and into the stars.
In the final dark, our ghosts huddle against
wisps of wind. It is almost like touching,
and their eyes never adjust.