They crawl to me. They make
the atmosphere dance for them, forcing
named-graves into the air
like salmon carcasses
that spew their hearts out in a Hansel-trail
to a tributary:
me. My hair exclamation-posed,
my limbs in locust cage. The wind
wears a straightjacket,
its rib-wheezes freeze my nerves.
My box of vocal nothings has had
its pearls invested in shade dentists:
them. They crawl to me,
child con-artists, decomposing,
If only they didn't carry my voice.