No point looking
for them in castles with 
Gothic mansards, widows'
walks, or on deserted
moors.  Ghosts like action.  
That's why you'll find
so many at the track
—the prickle on your 
neck as you stand
at the five dollar 
window and say a name
 
(not one you'd figured)
seventeen to one at
the last tick
—the wind over your 
shoulder as the horses
enter the clubhouse 
turn, an echo
of your screams as the nag
makes a late bid, an acrid
scent as it fades
 
to fifth.  The ghosts don't 
follow the ponies, though no
trainer holds secrets from
them, though they'd have 
leisure to make the form
yield up its secret truths.
The truth is they don't care
who wins.  They don't need money.
They're in it for the jolt of
what only flesh holds in—
what blazes from eyes,
tugs stomachs like sex glands—
what winning snarls with 
greed and responsibility,
but losing gives pure.
                        

      All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one.
          --E.M. Forster, Howards End
 
All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one.
Most things are best understood by no one.
 
They have eaten parts of you, and smoothed you over
With glaze of spun cream. Tell no one.
 
He sends her clods of earth from different countries.
She buries them in her garden. Tell no one.
 
She takes her silk dress off, swims the lake,
Keeps going. Will not be back. Tell no one.
 
We meet at the exact spot where the war ended,
Exchange small tokens. Part. Tell no one.
 
Two girls and a boy saw you later that night.
They've secrets of their own. They will tell no one.
 
It's best to assume Tad Richards never wrote this,
But if not, who? You know. Tell no one.