They are done. I am an anagram
a terrorized, tangible motor recoil,
follow their steps with no haste,
wallow in the lapse with no taste,
swallowing the rapt kiss but no wait,
something out of the rat-noises under the bed,
something out of the sarcophagus of dead film clips
(the film in their eyes),
sunken, pouted mouths which press the buttons
of thrill to mesmerize my motions
with cycling pain, tumbler's pain,
the pain of airless strobe lights,
engraving etchings of a bad bird
on the pillar of my neck.