Ghosts whisper of memory: an overturned Jeep, broken glass still bearing etched letters
there, a “p” followed by numerals so faint the heart cannot feel their presence.
I followed you back, through quiet streets who, in faint black paint, speak:
I take my desires for reality because
I believe in the reality of my desires.
And your masks, lying littered on the ground next to an unused wastebasket. There’s the tiger, the bear, the bull and the eagle. You do not fly.
It was only then you collapsed in a pile of dirty collars, sprawled across a floor swept poorly so might small things escape. Darting like mice
they began to materialize: work, sleep, death. And slower: consume, produce.
As your skin began to peel
my eyes drawn close to my cheek revealed
a feather tucked so carefully behind the mirror: dust, dispossession, decay.