poem an occasionally

THE ISLE OF THE DEAD

In China, Shanghai, they call it the isle of the dead.
Not that it ever was surrounded by the gentle rubbing of water, but
it is an island now, an isle, and the lights
from the city around work
hard all day and the not-quite-dark
at eroding it until
finally

there is only one building
on a graveyard of thousands: easier
to topple just one.

And no one here ever speaks of ghosts--
They have all left to the city's bright heaven.