We lunch on dust.
We wake, wage our campaigns
of mistakes across a quiet,
wary, unwaving old world.
No greeting, no parting,
no arriving, no leaving -
we are jabs in the air,
crudely curbed animal feints,
& then our names are packed away
& left forgotten in a taxi,
or in a train station bathroom,
or in a fray of rain.
Don't think too hard about it;
that, too, is a mistake.