TO AN OLD FRIEND IN PARIS

I haven’t seen the ghost of your mother.

But I have seen your poems about the ghost

Of your mother as she brushes by you

Near the Seine, or as Linda Gregerson,

Or in the unseen acts guiding those poems

About the ghost of your mother, that chill

As you write that withers into something

Lithe, words for the weather suddenly flush

With lavender and salt, barked line breaks hush,

The poem opening like an ear pressed

Against the cold clicking door of a safe.

Day comes to dark caves but darkness remains.

And the only way then to know a truth

Is to squint in its direction and poke.