Every time I  breathe,
I covertly wish
I'd know exactly what the dust wanted me to hear.

And the vibrations of this foreign speech
Would tumble an image Of comprehension,
Into the atmosphere.

So that I can see the ghosts,
Of what once possessed this space.

Perhaps A gentleman In tweed, with his briefcase in a haste,

Or the desperate gaze, telescope in weathered hand, amidst the salted search for land.

A giddy lover's wink, the silent invitation of Eve's stare.

Or the legs of a tripod, disappearing in the grass, Spattered in the hues that the landscape refused,

•••

So powerful our sense of perception should be,
If a gust of the wind always told where he was, 
or what he could see.