They seemed slow motion circling the lamp
with their shadows, too much hidden in them,
their arms adamant, gaze hesitant before
the photos of faces made of stone,
and I waited for them to miss a beat
and turn to me—time was running downhill
while our lives gave off—was this the real thing?—
The face of our hostess an angry mask as she
followed her husband while he danced the room.
I held still, so still I felt invisible.
What she wanted generated the smell of ink.
When she knelt, I could smell bone twisting
on bone, and I moaned as she shivered
the wickedness of things into my body.
like birds aflitter in
branches in your mind
signals the shift
you into a jittery narrative
where you emerge blinking
foreshadowing the great
caesura in the
who used to live here