Poetry?!?

OK. There is simply no way I am ever going to do anything else with this, because I don't even know what you do with poetry, but I wrote this at least two years ago and I keep going back and going back to it and I think I should just be done with the thing.

So.

A poem, written a while ago:

I went to the park and found us there,
sitting on the bench together.
The world was frigid around us,
glasslike, winter-dappled,
the gray trees and red clay mud
just as they had been once--
world without end.

I stood in the spot where I was sitting--
I or my ghost, it was hard to say--
and looked down at you.
And though I could look through your curly hair,
past your bones and your teeth and the cavity
haunted by the wraith of that absent organ,
all the way down
to the grain of the bench beneath you,
still I could not see
what was inside you during your performance.

I tried to sit in my own place, collapsing
the years between us,
but all I got was cold
and wet.

I kicked at you,
hoping you'd crumble away into slush,
but my rimey ghost-boot went right through you,
and I did not know any more
what I was feeling.

So I left us there in the park,
with our love
and our lies--
and who can say any more
whose is whose
or
which is which?

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