My computer is haunted.

The city melts like sugar.

There is no option but to stop doing everything and listen.

The voice.

Impossible not to shiver when her voice is here,

right now, so clearly, so present and close.

Sylvia Plath, forever alive not on her poems

on the printed page,

but on the recording,

on the always-present-continuous of her voice.

How can one long for someone one never met?

Someone one has only read?

How can one snap out of it,

as if nothing had happened, when listening to her,

so here?

Nobody can tell what I lack.

The recorded voice brings the dead back.

It makes them live again, as if they had never left.

My computer is haunted.

The ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird.