(murmurs.)

it's a grey-gold silhouette, talking

but not to me. language

that sounds

like its color–reminds

me of tail lights

(through a window)

yelling to each other in

harsh, bright tones.

(move!)

but the fog

(always)

interrupts them with

clouded philosophy and patron-

ization.

the closet feels

like a broken tail light

(i think),

as it yawns to rattle

something loose, deep

inside it. unfinished

thoughts snake out and

around me, coiling

to pull away

to set free. shivering

out among them, my body

turns to shadows

(of all the paper-

backs i've ever read)–their

yellow-and-black covers fall-

ing to dust

on

the

floor.