This must be the place
At my wake i dream,
ghost about and try
as i might, make only
minimal impact. I repeat
the same tasks over,
more frantic with each
attempt. When i
speak, words stillborn
in my throat choke
at cords and die
without proper
pronouncements.
The people i meet barely
acknowledge my presence.
They brook no walls nor
gravity nor premise. Mother,
wife, lover, or more, at once, a
procession of enemies i've kept
close to every other person i have
not met, yet, mutable
all, as i am deliberate
and vague. They have me only
in so far they exist
in my head. I
am no cause for effect
and it is always getting
late and i forget and i forget
that. And i dream i dream i go
back to bed and fall
and jolt and shake
my shackles reflexing
my own knee
jerk against my self in stead.
~
*note to "This must be the place"
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