Ghosts is my horizon

it cloisters around me like

fumed weaponry,

holding firmly to me by

brain and brands-named laughter.

It does not get a lot worse

than this

to allow my feet and fingers to

trip merrily along

the ghost-writing of pasts

and future if only a breath-

taking words away.

Your fumed words

do nothing to me

they just allow me

a separateness from the rule

of mankind. It is about working the

words into shape like balls

of wool in winter

allowing the use of it

to make the sweater I need

for you are coldest at night

when I think of you

in your corset and corsage

for one who isn’t





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