Of course every place is haunted, 
every place manifests

traces of the energy that once lived there
or embraced in bed, legs twined,

rocking so the bedposts shook in rising
rhythm; that steeped in warm,

fragrant steam from the bath, or stood
looking out of a window

watching as the warm oil of daybreak
anointed the tops of trees and stones—

Of course every place is haunted,
but most of all the crumbling mansion

that is history, its guttered towns
and blasted belfries; its burned-down

museums and universities, its libraries
reduced to ashes, its doomed

nurseries and hospital beds. If now there are
any vestiges of doors or windows, remember

how they once rang with the sounds of children's
voices, of nothing harsher than falling rain.

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