It rides on the wind, lurking in the dark corner of my hippocampus:
watching the cocoa cookie dough ferment in the sun,
my tore up dress drips it’s cotton fabric into the water, and
the monument standing in solitude embraces the peculiar February gloom.
Why not go back in time?
Then you start to tag me between those sheets:
my name, your name, their names, coalesced;
the extraneous, the eccentric, the exact, commingled;
obsolete tales, novel legends, timing lies, merged.
So I’ve heard, your chant, floating, drifting, dissolving.
The bleeding scalpel makes it impossible to fathom home:
brutal imaginations align before summer returns;
submissive servants bow when the master arrives;
you suffer and fall apart till desperation strikes; yet
I am too stuck to make out of the occult.