eyelids are not sickening silk
( like the ghost curtains twisting into
the shapes of limp-legged angels on naked windows )
instead they are grimy like too plump orange peels
that could never die by tomorrow.

card houses disintegrate
along with their sunset sand castle lovers.
at times we are the vanishing point, the curve of the edge
the black holes and Styx swallowing vacuum straws
scratching at the beautiful, the ugly

until there is no echo