Ghosts Poem by Terence Winch

In the rain falling on her.
In wide open space I think of.
I wake up without you, smoking
a cigarette, without a moment.
I have no name. The street without looking.

I am awake. I get done in a day.
I try to remember your faults.
The ghosts are covered with footsteps,
without memory, that open like
editions of Vogue in the small room
without you where you see everything
without her, without emptiness
without turning to someone in bed.