Husserl’s Theoretical Horizon, or a Ghost Is a House You Live in
Ghosts do not happen alone. Ghosts are made 
from rooms and glass and cherry trees. They lie down and become 
horizons. You see by them. 
You remember. 
Some ghosts want to undo you, to take you apart. 
They crawl in cupboards and bang against the wood. 
They rearrange furniture and hide 
your good shoe. You cannot fight them, you do 
not know their names. Other ghosts want 
to hold you together, to bake your favorite lemon cookies 
in the middle of the night and climb in bed with you 
and comb your hair with their glassy fingers. 
You hate these ghosts most of all. 
You know their names exactly. 
You know a ghost and you call her Kate. But Kate is not 
her name. You knew 
Kate before she was a ghost. You knew her square white teeth. 
Now, Kate is a red door shutting. 
Now, she is the room you sleep in. Kate sings 
your favorite song until you fall asleep. 
The ghost is a fixed point. Winter’s 
cicatrix. A cup tied to a rope tied to your neck. 
You wear it like an overcoat. You want 
to explain it, but to point your body toward  
the ghost is language enough. 
You wake up and Kate is still there. She enters 
by way of a mirror. She puts out her hands and tells you “take it” 
but her hands are empty. 
You drive out of town, the ghost 
is snow falling and the ghost is a trackless white 
interstate. Kate tries to tell you something, 
to show you where you’ve been. 
Your favorite song plays on the radio. 
You are not yet asleep. 
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