Playing Myst with a Ghost One Week in Spring

Seagulls swirl in pixels | above giant metal gears | on this speculative future island | of 1993 | i used to do the pointing | while you did all the clicking | in sylvan steampunk surroundings | of cozy disquiet | mirrored by the way you roll | your ghost eyes at me | as i click closed doors that refuse to open | on a rocket ship | a colossal tree | a clock tower in the water | Time stands still here | the daylight never changes | you used to keep notes for us | and now i see why | It is windy on Myst island | and i don’t know where to turn | i click to press a button | by an underground pool | it could reveal something | but really does nothing | i press other buttons | turn multiple wheels | take elevators and stairs | to more deserted spaces | i do meet a man | trapped inside a book | and another | more hysterical man | trapped inside a second book | Meanwhile | in the real world | bright grass pierces | a fallen chicken-wire snowman | In the real world | forsythias lose their gold | The pollinators are here | the scythe-headed wisteria buds dying | to bloom