Brightest Bunting

whistling spaces (in this copse of beeches being us,

watered by nothing we are only absorbing

grubs and weird wind) are peopled by thinking ghosts,

booing shades,

kids with sheets with eye holes,

too easily deciphered, too easily busted,

as the thoughtless phantoms pop

and moan and vanish, screaming

sweetie nothing in the haunted

forest all the smart ghosts

know that

sure as trees are beeches

we are

brightest bunting