A gorgeous day:
   the sky is blue;
   the air is crisp,
      and a bird swoops in low
          over the field to land
             in search of insects.

The sign is kind of a bummer:

   It tells me that 13,000
      people died here --
   most by shitting themselves 
      into unconsciousness.
     (it doesn't use those exact words.)

This is Andersonville -- 
   site of a Civil War prison camp.

Here, I believe in ghosts.
   I don't believe in ghosts
      when drinking my morning coffee
      at my dining room table.
   I don't believe in them when I 
      turn off my bedside lamp.
   I don't believe in them anywhere --
      anywhere else -- really. 

But here they vibrate up
    through my boot heals,
        and I fear I may 
           shit myself.